


the ghost of you keeps me awake

by juggyjones



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bellamy is Not Taking It Well, Clarke May or May Not Pop Up as an Active Character, Dead Clarke Griffin, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, It's Not All Dark and Gloomy Though, Let's Hope I Finish This One, POV Bellamy Blake, Sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-04-12 07:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19126981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juggyjones/pseuds/juggyjones
Summary: On the bed lay his best friend, asleep. She is never going to open her eyes again. He never thought he would need to wake up to a world where he knows he will never see Clarke’s bright blue eyes catching his dark ones. A world where if he rings her phone, no one would answer. A world where he will wake up to an aching pain in his chest and have to remind himself every morning why it’s there.A world where she will never know how much he needs her, or how he truly feels about her.He can’t live without Clarke.But now he has to.---or, clarke griffin dies in a car accident and bellamy blake can't move on.





	1. before

**Author's Note:**

> if i said i'm sorry, that would've been a lie.

**27 HOURS BEFORE**

Bellamy is a sceptic. He doesn’t believe in paranormal, or any god, or true love, but he admits that there is a tiny bit of possibility of either—if not all—of these things being real. It’s just not for him.

Just like that, he doesn’t believe in special boding, either. When mothers say they know when their kids are in danger he doesn’t believe it because, he thinks, it’s what mothers are supposed to do. It’s their job to understand their kids, to know when they feel sad even before they themselves do. It’s not a special bond – it’s duty.

Knowing when your loved one is in danger is another thing he finds improbable. Science tried proving it and even if some people say it did, it’ll never be enough for him. There’s no hard proof. No science can put an end to that question and neither can anything else, and if it isn’t proven, then he doesn’t believe in it. It’s not an instinct, or a special bond. It’s bullshit that people make up to make themselves feel better, to lull themselves into a false sense of security.

Bellamy is, above all, a sceptic.

But there is nothing to be sceptic about when he feels as if he’d just been punched in the stomach. Swift blow, right into his gut. His lungs hurt; they’re out of oxygen. He can barely catch his breath. There’s a couch behind him, and he crashes into it when he stumbles down. His skin is prickling, and the clock beside him is ticking.

He can barely see, or breathe.

The time is 4.32 in the morning.

**26 HOURS BEFORE**

His chest still hurts. He’s tried rubbing it, taking a shower, but it feels as if there is a heat inside his ribcage that won’t go away.

Bellamy thought of calling the paramedics, afraid it might be a heart attack – but he’s only twenty-three. He’s too young. He wouldn’t die, would he?

When his phone rings, he jumps at it. He knows it can’t be good. There’s only one person in his life who would be awake at this time on a Wednesday morning and she only ever needs him like this if it’s an unsolvable emergency. He wouldn’t be awake, either, if it weren’t for the feeling of dread that kept him up.

‘Hello?’

There’s no immediate response and the silence on the other end is asphyxiating.

The hairs on the nape of his neck stand up.

This is Abby Griffin’s number.

‘Abby? Is everything all right?’

There is a hitched breath, and another shaky one; Bellamy’s heart tenses. He’s wide awake now.

‘Abby, what’s going on?’

‘Come to the Ark hospital. She needs you right now.’

He gives her his word and hangs up, putting on only a coat before rushing into the harsh Virginian winter. Every muscle in his body is active and adrenaline is like an awful, poisonous drug.

Bellamy steals a glance at his phone to see if there’s any news. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or scared when there isn’t, and he starts the car.

The time is 5.42 in the morning.

**17 HOURS BEFORE**

Raven hands him a cup of coffee, giving him a slight nod. He stands beside Clarke’s best friend and Murphy is still on the road, as his phone was on silent when Abby rang. The two stare at the door reading “OPERATING ROOM”.

‘She’s going to make it.’

‘Yeah,’ mumbles Bellamy. ‘She has to.’

His throat is dry and voice hoarse and he hasn’t drunk a drop of liquid since going to bed last night. The coffee in his hands is warming his hands and calling him to drink it, but he knows he can’t. If he drinks or eats anything, it’ll just come back out. He doesn’t want for his body to suffer even more – his chest is still tense and mind running places.

The fact that his best friend and his— _No_. His best friend lying on an operating table with a whole arsenal of best surgeons they could find trying to save her is already more than he can handle.

When Murphy comes with Octavia, he doesn’t even question it. She tries hugging him but Bellamy doesn’t register, and she goes with Murphy for Raven to fill them in. They’re both shaking and out of breath as they ran here, and Bellamy can hear what Raven is saying through a deafening white noise in his head.

They take as badly as the next person. Octavia is sobbing on Raven’s shoulder and Murphy is sitting on the chair next to Bellamy, fingers tapping against the arm rests.

‘She was driving home,’ Murphy repeats, to himself. ‘She was going home. She was going to be here. And all it took was – a drunk fucking driver.’

The boys lock eyes and they both know what they don’t want to say.

**10 HOURS BEFORE**

Bellamy hasn’t slept. He is sick and he tries to cry but nothing comes out. He is _empty._

The hospital bathrooms are the worst. He remembers when it was his mum lying on an operating table instead of Clarke, and he remembers spending most of the time either looking after a fifteen year-old Octavia or locked in a bathroom stall. He was shaking then and he is shaking now, and he can’t stop.

The bathrooms have never looked friendly since.

So  _sterile_ , so  _invasive_. There is nothing personal about them - people come and go. Nothing stays. 

Hospitals aren’t places where you stay. You come and go, alive or dead. 

He heaves his body upright, over the toilet seat, and more of the sickly substance leaves his mouth. He wipes it with toilet paper, disgusted with himself.

The perks of bathroom stalls for the disabled are the mirrors. This time, it’s a curse; the Bellamy that returns his glance is a ghost of himself, a fading shadow. There are dark circles underneath his eyes, purple veins covering his eyelids, broken capillaries inside his eyes and his lips are chapped, dying. With the way he looks, he could just as easily be put into one of those empty beds himself.

It’s been seventeen hours. He’s _drained_.

Someone knocks on the door, receiving a half-hearted ‘ _Taken!_ ’ in return. He can’t muster up anything more than that – he’s barely standing on his feet.

‘Bellamy, the surgery’s over.’

 _‘Bellamy, the surgery’s over.’_ He’s suddenly nineteen again and Dr Tsing sounds heavy. Bellamy looks up and he hopes, idly, _foolishly._ His mum doesn’t make it through the surgery.

He doesn’t have a mum anymore.

He can’t lose Clarke, too.

‘Bellamy.’

Murphy sounds weak and hopeless, but not as apologetic as Dr Tsing. Still; Bellamy’s world turns upside down. He pushes himself away from sink and unlocks the door, met with his friend’s face.

There isn’t an ounce of hope.

It’s Bellamy’s heart’s turn to sink.

‘She’s in a coma. Third degree burns. There’s not much they can do.’

He knows what Murphy is leaving unsaid.

Bellamy lost his mum, and he is about to lose his best friend, too.

**2 HOURS BEFORE**

His best friend lies asleep in the bed before him. Bellamy watches the heartbeat steadily progress on the monitor, a beat he knows he won’t be able to forget. He’s listening; waiting for a change. Fear fills him and he’s half expecting the beat to turn into a toneless line at any given moment.

The room is cold.

If he focuses on her face, Clarke looks peaceful. Her eyelids flutter every now and then and every time, he thinks she is about to open them. She never does. Even her pale lips are paler now, and her skin lost all its colour, where it hasn’t been scorched. The bandages, casts, and gauzes are covering most of her body. She has a stich in her eyebrow and two on her jaw, another one on her collarbone.

As he watches, three of her gauzes darken slightly with her blood. They can’t change them fast enough.

He hardly recognizes her. It scares him; it feels as if he’s lost her already.

They are alone, too, for the first time. Abby was forced to rest in one of the rooms for the staff because she hasn’t slept since she was called in. She tried to fight her way into the hospital as a surgeon, just for Clarke. It’s a family matter, though, and it doesn’t matter if she is the best surgeon in Virginia – this is too personal. She could barely function, too. Bellamy still stands on his feet. Wobbly and light-headed, but he stands.

Murphy and Raven took Octavia to Murphy’s to rest, just after they found out Clarke is stable. Bellamy might be able to see and hear and not collapse, but he is in no state to take care of anyone, and his friends know that. They aren’t going to leave Clarke, or him. They should be back soon; it’s only a matter of time when Clarke’s state changes and they don’t want to miss it, good or bad.

He understands, better than anyone else. He understands he needs rest, because his body is shutting down. His field of vision is cut off at the edges and the world is slowly fading, but he can’t bring himself to close his eyes. Not without guilt washing over him.

He isn’t guilty. He didn’t make her come to Arkadia, or even know she was coming. He isn’t the drunk driver who hit her. He isn’t the doctors who couldn’t do much to save her.

He is just Bellamy. Her best friend.

His only guilt is that he loves her too much to accept what’s happening.

One of his hands reaches for hers and, before he knows what’s happening, he’s holding hers. She is cold and limp, and a shudder runs through his bones. He doesn’t cry. Almost. He chokes on a sob, swallows it, and rubs his thumb over her palm.

Her palm is one of the few parts of her body that aren’t taken away from her just yet.

‘Hey, Clarke.’ He looks at her; waits to see if something would happen. Nothing does. ‘Hang in there, all right?’

There’s a chair next to the bed and he sits down, sinking into it.

**1 MINUTE BEFORE**

Nine of them stand around the bed. Nine people are the only ones who could make it here on such a short notice – a small portion of people who love her. The others aren’t here, but Bellamy feels as if there are a million hearts weighing his own down.

Abby, Kane, Raven, Murphy, Octavia, doctor, nurse. Bellamy.

That’s all Clarke has.

The doctor looks at Abby again and she nods; she is crying softly. Murphy is trying to be everyone’s rock but he is already broken, too. Raven, like Bellamy, is a breath away from collapsing. They’ve both lost so much already. Octavia is curled up to his side, hands wrapped around him just like when she was fifteen.

His friends try to catch his gaze, but he looks away. He knows what they’re thinking.

He’s held out for so long, he can hold out a little longer.

 _‘The cancer has spread to the brain and caused an aneurism_ ,’ he recalls Dr Tsing saying. ‘ _There’s nothing we can do._ ’

He recalls being hurt. He remembers the pain and the sharp pain in his chest when he heard those words, and how he couldn’t recover. There are no words to describe how he felt when he realized his mum would never wake up.

It didn’t hurt any less when he heard the doctors say those words to Abby.

He looks at the monitor one last time. When it turns into a steady line, Bellamy feels nothing.

On the bed lay his best friend, asleep. She is never going to open her eyes again. He never thought he would need to wake up to a world where he knows he will never see Clarke’s bright blue eyes catching his dark ones. A world where if he rings her phone, no one would answer. A world where he will wake up to an aching pain in his chest and have to remind himself every morning why it’s there.

A world where she will never know how much he needs her, or how he truly feels about her.

He can’t live without Clarke.

But now he has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for checking this out, hope you liked it! this chapter and the next two are arguably the most difficult ones to write, read, and process. they're also the darkest chapters of the story, so it only goes up from there ~~as much as it can.~~ the whole thing is almost entirely prewritten, but it's old so i'm tweaking some stuff and once i'm done, i'll be posting every third day. each chapter is between 2k and 4k words, so i think the whole thing will be around 25k - 30k, although it might be more once finished. i reckon i'll have it done by the end of the month.


	2. one week after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘She promised me,’ he said in the speech, ‘that we’d always be together. When I was fourteen. And to think that I have been waking up in a world where she doesn’t wake up makes me angry, because she promised. She’s supposed to be here if life gets hard. She’s not supposed to be the reason why life gets hard.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for alcoholism?? not sure

Hands on the sink. Sick in the toilet. Blinds on the windows and a boy on the tiles; a boy who is trying to regain a sense of self.

Loss.

Shortness of breath. The weight of life on the chest. Hair in the eyes, cries on the lips, and open wounds in place of knuckles. Piles of clothes scattered around the bathroom, leading out of it, covering the floor of the flat. Emptiness in the eyes.

Pain.

Day one. Day two, three, seventeen. Day thirty-eight, ninety-two, seven-hundred eighty, two thousand—Day one. One moment equal to the next. One breath just the same as the one before. Heartbeat after heartbeat after heartbeat. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba- _dum._ Twisted gut. Knots, knots, a thousand knots.

A boy trying to grasp the concept of reality.

_Aching_.

Bellamy heaves over the toilet seat and gets rid of whatever is still left inside his body, again. He wipes his mouth with toilet paper, barely conscious enough to do so. Barely holding himself up against the tiled wall; the cold of it contrasts the flaming heat inside his body almost like a plaster.

Lately, he’s been living for the occasional moments of relief like these. Something temporarily pushes the pain away. Sometimes he gets lucky enough and it pushes it so far that he stops feeling altogether.

He might be ill. It’s been a while since he was this drunk last and he isn’t planning on stopping. Day after day after day. If it kills him, maybe things will be easier to bear.

There’ll be no more of that fucking _burn_ all over his body like a back-hand slap.

It’s been a week since the hospital. It must be. He knows it’s his third or fourth time waking up to emptying his guts on his bathroom floor. All the days feel like one that doesn’t end. The only reason he knows that is because there was one when he buried her.

With his fingers up, he tries to count the days. One, two, three… three before. One or two after. His fingers look blurry, the feeling in his hand is almost gone and he can’t even tell how many fingers he is holding up. His head is falling down. His heart is threatening to burst out of his chest, painfully trying to wake him up.

_Can’t_ , he thinks. His lips form the words, but no sound leaves them. _My heart is six feet deep underground._

Wednesday. It’s must be Wednesday.

He gets up, supporting himself against the wall and the toilet and the sink and every single thing he can get his hands on. Bellamy walks past the mirror with hands firmly on the wall, tracing his path. He knows what would look back at him if he looked.

His place isn’t much better than him. It’s a flat he got only a couple of weeks ago, thinking it would be a perfect place for a new start. Octavia moved to college dorms and he couldn’t stay with Murphy anymore, so he settled for a small place with one bedroom for him and one for his guests. When he said he wanted a new beginning, he never meant one without _her_.

She is – _was_ the only thing he could always count on.

He steps over heaps of clothes and booze and leftover food. The whole place looks like it reeks of a wreck, but his head is so messed up he can’t feel it. He’s barely holding himself up, still. The couch lets out a squeak as he plops down. He starts thinking and grabs a bottle of beer in hopes of numbing his mind.

Bellamy isn’t getting any better.

The phone rings about three beers later.

‘Hello?’

He forgot he doesn’t answer his phone anymore.

_‘Bellamy, what’s going on? Why aren’t you answering?_ ’

‘Been busy.’

_‘I’m worried about you. I’ll come up on Saturday, can you meet me at the Dropship?’_

‘I don’t go there anymore.’

_‘Don’t do this, Bellamy. You can’t just isolate yourself. If you can just give me your address—’_

‘Drop it.’ Bellamy empties the bottle in his hands and throws it at the wall. It shatters, loudly, but he can’t find a single caring bone in his body.

_‘What was that?’_

‘Nothing. I’m hanging up now.’

_‘Bellamy—‘_

‘Bye, O.’

He presses the red button on the screen, silent as he watches his sister’s picture fade to black. He doesn’t need her to take care of him and neither does she need him.

Bellamy should feel guilty – that much he understands. But all he can feel is tired and weary, too old for his age. His stomach is a rumble and the bitter taste of beer is mixed with the vodka still burning in his throat, hours after he drank it last. He’s hungry to the point of starving, but he doesn’t have it in himself to get up.

Self-harm comes in many forms and Bellamy has accepted that a long time ago.

The place is a mess. He doesn’t know why he keeps it this way. Usually, things are tidy wherever he goes, because he likes to be in the know of his stuff’s whereabouts. It is – was _her_ who never cared about the mess she surrounded herself with, as long as she could function. A creative mess, that’s what she called it.

A part of him asserts this is not his pathetic tribute to his best friend; an illusion of keeping her alive in small ways. Another part of him sees it for what it is.

Glass cracks underneath his foot and he swears loudly, putting the shards aside with his other foot. There’s pain in his soles and he leaves a crimson trail on the clothes and linoleum as he walks to the kitchen. He puts his foot in the sink and presses against the wound, applying enough pressure to slow down the bleeding. Then he puts a kitchen towel into his mouth and pours water over the wound and clenches his jaw, body tensing until he turns the water off. There’s a bottle of vodka sitting on the counter next to the sink, half full. His hands carry it over to the sink. Bellamy stares at it, for a second, and he takes a swig before putting the kitchen towel back in his mouth. He pours some of it over his wound and this time, he screams in agony.

_Cauterise the wound_ , he can almost hear _her_ voice in the back of his mind. He is fourteen again and he just cut himself while preparing dinner. She came rushing as soon as he called, prepared with a first-aid kit.

He sees her sitting on a chair with his arm on the table, pouring some medicinal alcohol over it. _Cauterise the wound so the bacteria don’t enter your bloodstream_ , she says. He doesn’t remember what he says, only that he is screaming in pain with only a gauze to muffle it. She then taps around the wound with cotton, diligently, cautiously. When she reaches into the first-aid kit and takes out a needle and a thread, he feels as if he’s about to pass out.

She smiles at him and it’s the only thing he can focus on. _Bellamy, hey, stay with me, okay? I’m just going to sew this back together because it can get ugly otherwise._ He remembers nodding, through haze, and focusing on her face until things became clearer again.

He feels the first sting and each and every one afterwards, but he puts it behind a glass wall and it can’t hurt him. He watches her; the blonde strands framing her face as they escaped her braid. Her plump lips and long lashes, her eyes never rising to meet his because they’re so concentrated on what her hands are doing. The mole above her lip and the tiny scar on her left cheek she got when they were younger. The way one of her eyebrows is raised slightly more than the other one, and her lips pursed just a little as she is breathing, softly. Or when she looks up at him, just to check if he’s still with her, and the blue of her eyes flashes at him from underneath her eyelashes and he holds in a breath.

_If you don’t have the first-aid kit,_ she says to him, _use any needle and thread, but cauterise it first. Burn the bacteria._ He glances at his arm, watches her work, and it doesn’t even feel like she’s doing that on his arm. _And when you’re done, put a gauze over it and tape it to your arm. Change the gauze every three hours or so, and apply pressure if you can._

She looks up at him. _But don’t worry. If that happens again, you know I’ll be there to take care of it. You’re going to be okay._

The reason why he manages to get through sewing his own foot is because he imagines it’s her doing it. It’s _her_ telling him he’ll be okay, and before he knows it, he’s down on the floor again.

He hasn’t cried yet.

His foot is fixed and he’s done everything she told him to, but it’s not the foot that hurts. More than anything else, sitting on the floor with glass shards and broken bottles or whatever it was, Bellamy is drowning in guilt.

A few days ago— _three_ , he thinks, _it must be three_ —it was the funeral. That was the last time he was getting through this sober and it was the hardest. He’s been thinking about drinking himself to oblivion even before that, but couldn’t. It’s not what she would’ve wanted.

And he doesn’t want anyone to see how badly he is taking it.

So, he gave himself until the funeral to try to deal with it the way everyone told him he should.

Bellamy prepared a speech. He wrote it over and over again, because Abby asked him to give one because, in her words, he was the person who knew _her_ best. In his own words, he’s the only one who stood by her side through all the shit life put her through. The speech he wrote was long and emotional, cheesy and corny and real from the fucking heart. It was raw, imminent and unavoidable. He can’t escape the reality of it; he is being swallowed by it.

Much of what happened that day came together as a blur. Dozens, maybe hundreds of people wanting to pay her respects but he just wanted them all away. He wanted to be alone with the girl no one knew he loved, one last time.

He never got that.

They were insects, swarming around him, talking to him but he couldn’t hear them.

‘My condolences, Bellamy,’ someone said.

‘She’s going to be missed. I cannot even imagine what it feels like to lose your best friend,’ someone else told him.

‘Clarke made the world a better place,’ someone said, and it wasn’t until later that he realized it was Jasper Jordan, one of their friends from high school. ‘She made people better people.’

Someone even walked up to him, sat next to him and talked for a couple of minutes. It might’ve been Octavia, even. He was so out of it he couldn’t as much as recognize his own little sister. She took his hand into hers and hugged him, once, and let go when he needed to go in front of everybody to hold his speech. He hardly noticed.

The speech was the worst part. Abby was crying in Kane’s arms, and _her_ stepfather looked almost as shattered as she did. No one else looked much better, either. In the back of his mind, he recognized some of the people standing around the grave – Murphy, Raven, Octavia and Lincoln, Jasper, Monty and Harper, Shaw, Jackson, and even Lexa, in the back row. Bellamy felt nothing. He hasn’t felt anything since the line flattened and he doesn’t think he can feel anything ever again.

She is gone. Is a life without her worth living?

‘Clarke was my best friend,’ he recalls saying. ‘Aside from my sister Octavia, she is the only person I could consider family.’

He remembers the moment when he realized. He remembers being fourteen, and it’s only weeks after she helped him with the cut on his arm. There’s a scab in its place and Bellamy wishes that’s the only thing he needs to worry about. When he comes to the Griffins’, with a ten year-old Octavia by his side, her dad pulls them both in a hug.

_I’m so sorry_ , he remembers Jake saying. _I’m sure your mum will get better. Abby is trying to help as much as she can._

Emergency surgery for stage two ovarian cancer. The beginning of the end for his family.

Jake leads them into the house and she runs in with a hug just for him. _Aurora will be fine_ , she promises. They eat and they watch movies and Bellamy manages to forget how difficult the situation is; she doesn’t give them a moment to think about it. When Octavia is asleep, they go for a walk around the neighbourhood and Bellamy pulls her into a hug.

_Thank you_ , are the only words he can muster.

_We’ll do this together_ , she replies.

_Together_ , he echoes.

_Always._

‘She promised me,’ he said in the speech, ‘that we’d always be together. When I was fourteen. And to think that I have been waking up in a world where she doesn’t wake up makes me angry, because she promised. She’s supposed to be here if life gets hard. She’s not supposed to be the reason why life gets hard.’

He coughed a little. Even then, he felt ill and weak and running on fumes. People in the crowd were quiet, Abby was on the verge of sobbing, and birds were chirping.

The casket was closed. In between him and everybody else.

‘We had our arguments.’ _Finn. Lexa. Her degree. Her dad. Octavia._ ‘Most of the time, it was because one of us knew what was best for the other and we couldn’t see it.’ Sometimes they wouldn’t speak for days. Sometimes life was lonely. ‘There were things we’d say in those arguments. Times when I told her I’d rather live without her. But she was my best friend and she knew the truth. She knew that was never even a choice I considered, because Clarke is one of the best things in my life.’

He loves her. He would go through hell for her, if she asked him to, and even if she didn’t. He would burn everything to the ground if that meant she was safe, and she would’ve done the same.

‘I don’t know who I am without Clarke. I never had to learn. All I know is that a life without Clarke is going to be gloomier, and a life I wish I didn’t need to live. And I’m sure many of you feel the same. Clarke was a ray of light in our lives, and may she continue to do so from above.’

_Aurora was a ray of light in your life, and may she continue to do so from above_ , she says to him when he’s nineteen and can’t sleep. Octavia does, somehow, and it’s just him and her again. She says that because Aurora has been gone for a little over a day and it’s something her dad would always say. He kisses her temple and she pulls him into a hug, and he rests and finally closes his eyes for the first time. With her, he’s safe. Darkness is a little further away.

_Jake was a ray of light in your life, and may he continue to do so from above_ , he tells her when they bury her dad. They’re twenty and he is the only thing holding Clarke together. He kisses her forehead and pulls her into a hug, and she falls asleep on his chest, on her bed.

They only ever needed each other.

‘That day, we all lost someone.’ He looked at Abby. ‘A daughter.’ Raven. ‘A friend.’ Jackson. ‘A co-worker.’ He closes his eyes, and he still feels the pain of that moment. ‘And I lost the woman I loved.’

He walked away from the crowd. Without a word. He just disappeared, knowing things were going to take a turn and the nothing would turn into everything. He walked for what felt like hours, until the sun came down and the moon shone his path to her.

There she was, six feet under and a world away. Never to wake again.

He doesn’t know how to let her go. Not without letting himself go, too.

With her gone, there is no one to look after him. She was the only constant in his life, now that Octavia is at college, miles away. The only thing anchoring him. Now, it’s so easy to lose himself when no one can dedicate time to him; no one checks up whether he is dead or alive, and he is fine with that.

The world without _her_ is a world not worth living in. He will numb and numb and numb the pain until he can’t feel anymore, and only then will he be able to.

No one is here to stop him.

Not Octavia, not Murphy, not Raven. Not his mum, or her dad. Not people who have their own lives to lead and their own ways of mourning her.

He is alone.

Days later, alone. Sitting, locked up in his apartment, pitying himself and wishing he could mourn his best friend with grace. That speech he gave, what he could remember of it, it was nothing. It didn’t convey even a single per cent of the things he could say about her. The goods and the bads, the highs and the lows, he would have even the worst of their moments back just for a single moment with her.

Minutes later, Bellamy falls asleep on his kitchen floor surrounded by his grief in the shape of a mess.

It’s a Friday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's the first of july and i've still not finished this because some stuff came up, but here's the first proper chapter as an apology, i'll try to have the whole fic finished soon!


	3. three weeks after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are tears running down his face, but he can’t bring himself to cry properly. He can’t.
> 
> If he cries, then he’s mourning her. If he’s mourning her, then she’s _gone_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates are now on wednesdays! i promise to do them weekly. anyway, enjoy yet another emotional chapter (plot kicks in soon okay) and the appearance of some of our other characters.

There are times when Bellamy can’t remember his own name. Slurring and drooling, calling people the name of a dead friend, asking strangers to help find him what he’s lost. Hands on the sink stabilise him and he doesn’t look in front of him – in the mirror, the boy inside is begging for a way out.

He finds a bottle of Jack Daniels, mixes it with what little coke he has. Couch, three in the morning. A Frank Sinatra vinyl playing in the background.

There are still glass shards over the floor. His foot is healing, barely.

The boy with no name drowns in alcohol again.

What he is doing is the worst thing he can do, the worst way to cope, and he knows it. He understands that this makes him a coward. He succumbs to oblivion by getting rid of all that was good and bad about _her_. Finding solace in poison, hoping to kill the little bits of mind that kept going back to _her._ There is nothing glorious about it but then again, there is nothing glorious about losing the one person who you thought would be with you forever.

Others deal with it by going on with their lives with a hole in their chest.

He lets his hole consume him.

Bellamy drifts in and out of sleep, trapped in a hazy state that is neither here nor there. His thoughts are racing around a million and one memory, creating a rift in time and space inside his own head. Present is not a concept he understands, and past appears to be the same. She is here one moment, smiling, and dead in a coffin the next.

The rift is the only escape. It’s the only place where he can see her alive again and every time she starts slipping away, he drinks more. He brings her back.

She always comes back. Just like she promised.

It comes at a price – excruciating tremors, battlefields inside his skull. Thumping, whenever he moves, and the light that doesn’t go away. It pains him, the way the light crawls up his eyelids and irks his skin; the sunrays mark the beginning of a new day when his hasn’t even ended yet. The annoying, irritable, and unfair reminders that time does not stop for the miserable.

Curtains have been drawn and he has since resorted to candles. Scattered around the flat, almost all of them are lit, giving the place a false sense of warmth. They make the walls a dusted yellow, light brown, and all the colours too warm to coexist with what’s inside of him – his eyes are glued to them, watching the mesmerising flames.

Time doesn’t pass when he can’t see the sun or the moon and has bought enough food and booze to last him over two weeks, with his habits. It’s been days since he checked any social media or electronics, even. He lets the days blend one into another, a mush where neither time nor space matter. She hasn’t been gone for longer if he doesn’t let the clock tick without her.

Reality is one fucked up thing yet he chooses to defy it, over and over again.

It might be the alcohol, or the depression, or any other thing he might be losing himself, but it feels as if catching glimpses of _her_ is all there’s worth living for.

When he hears someone storming through the door, it’s already too late.

‘Fuck, this place is a mess.’

‘Bellamy? Where the hell are you?’

Two figures appear in the hallway, long and lanky, and too bright for his eyes. He shields them with his hand— _no, they’re not bright, it’s the light behind them that is_ —and says something he forgets instantly. There is so much alcohol in his organism that forming a coherent thought is but a mere wish.

A broken grin appears on his face; he’s dizzy, and the boy and the girl look like superheroes coming to his rescue.

Bellamy feels like he’s about to be sick again.

One of them disappears for a second and the light almost blinds him. When she comes back, she doesn’t stop where her friend is standing, instead marching over to Bellamy and kneeling before him.

‘Christ, Bellamy, how much how have you had to drink?’

Her nose is scrunched in disgust and there are a few strands of dark brown hair framing her face. The rest of her hair is pulled into a high ponytail. Bellamy’s eyes focus on her face and he feels like the circles under her eyes aren’t a lighting illusion.

That must be Raven.

She removes some curls out of his face and his brain struggles to recall anything more about the girl. Raven, who he and _she_ met…through Finn, one of her exes, and she’s been a part of their friendship group ever since. She’s their age, but she’s at university. She must know how to help him.

For any other information, his mind is blank.

‘Look at me,’ says Raven. Her hands cup his cheeks, moving more of the sticky curls out of his face. ‘Bellamy, are you all right? How much did you have? Did you take anything?’

‘He’s not a fucking junkie, Raven.’

‘Murphy, shut up. You’re not helping.’

Through a blur of motion, Bellamy watches the boy walk around the room, moving things out of his way to make it possible. The girl continues talking to him but he can’t focus enough to listen; he can feel his eyes slowly rolling in the back of his head. He feels a tiny pain across his cheek, over and over again until he feels a little more in the moment.

She’s asking questions but Bellamy can’t hear them. There is very little he is capable of doing and listening, let alone talking, isn’t one of them.

He is no more present than a raggedy doll.

Bellamy’s eyes follow the boy around the room. He is still moving things, walking and talking. Sometimes, he calls out Bellamy’s name, or there is interaction between him and Raven. The boy is hardly corporeal – he is too far for Bellamy to see clearly, or hear, but he takes notice of the irritation in his voice. His hair is dark and half slicked back, half falling, and he looks as messy as Bellamy feels.

He looks like a phantom. The candles add to the illusion, and Bellamy wonders if Charon has come to collect his soul.

If he’s dying already.

When a blinding yellow light falls on his face, he all but screams; the boy becomes a splash of darkness against the brightness and Bellamy closes his eyes, shielding them with his hand, too.

‘Please,’ he whimpers, ‘don’t.’

‘Murphy.’

He is a little more in the moment now. He can tell his body aches from being in the same position for too long. He can tell that Raven’s voice is commanding and it gives him a sense of recognition; a familiarity he thought he’d never feel again.

‘See, it woke him up.’ He draws the curtains back nevertheless.

‘Hey, Bellamy,’ Raven tries again. ‘Stay with me, would you?’

‘This place is a shithole. These candles make me think he joined a cult.’ He grunts as he stumbles into something, profanities leaving his mouth. ‘I can’t even see my _feet_ in here.’

‘I don’t give a shit what you see and can’t see. Clean up a bit.’

‘ _Fine._ ’

Raven brings her attention back to Bellamy, but he can hardly see her. His awareness of what’s going on around him is short-lasting – his eyes go in and out of focus. The brunette’s lips look like they’re moving, but he can’t really hear a sound. There is something stuck in his throat, but he can’t cough it out.

Raven’s hands touch Bellamy’s shoulder and reach between him and the wall. When she pulls him closer to her, and he feels the warmth of another human being, he feels as if he’s about to pass out. He hasn’t been hugged in a long time. His hands try to reach behind her back, too, but he’s too weak; she only pulls him closer.

‘You’re okay, Bellamy. I got you.’

She repeats it, only he hears it in _her_ voice. He’s twenty and shattered in front of her because Octavia wants to go to college, and they can’t afford that. _I got you_ , she says, and she means it. She hugs him, too, and holds him as he cries. _We’ll figure something out._

 _We_? He remembers asking.

_Yeah. You and I. We’re together in this._

_Clarke—_

_Shh_ , she whispers, _I got you._

He cries then as he cries now. It’s far from pretty or enjoyable and he is crying all the tears he’s been holding back since he watched the line go flat. He is sobbing and it’s ugly and loud, and there’s snot and tears and spit all over Raven’s shirt.

‘I got you,’ Raven says again, holding him tight. ‘I miss her, too.’

She smells like oil and sweat and pine trees and Bellamy breaths in her scent. She smells like something he’s known for years, but hardly does, anymore. Almost like home.

He pulls back when the sense of home reminds him of someone else and he can’t stand it.

Raven hands him a tissue and he wipes his face. That’s about all he can manage. There are tears running down his face, but he can’t bring himself to cry properly. He can’t.

If he cries, then he’s mourning her. If he’s mourning her, then she’s _gone_.

‘Reyes. I got this. Can you get him a glass of water?’

Raven moves and to Bellamy, it seems reluctant. He hardly registers, though. Everything is blurry from alcohol and now tears, and he can’t stop the waterfall. There is nothing poetic or beautiful in the way he is; it’s a tragedy, but not one worth writing about. He is not a hero mourning another hero’s tragic death. He is not a fighter or a god; he is a mere boy who lost almost everything he has ever loved.

He lost the one person he would give up his life for.

Instead of Raven, the boy crouches in front of him. His face is stern and sharp enough he can tell that through his tears. It’s Murphy – the boy he met when he tried scamming him out of ten dollars when they were fifteen. He looks like he can’t deal with this and in a way, Bellamy knows it’s true. Murphy doesn’t tolerate emotions.

‘C’mon, dude. You don’t want to keep bottling it up anymore. Get up.’

Bellamy doesn’t think he can. In fact, he doesn’t think.

He is feeling for the first time in weeks and it _hurts_.

Someone presses a glass against his chapped lips, and they break. He gulps, slowly.

Murphy talks to him, but Bellamy can’t listen. He coughs and drinks and coughs and drinks and Murphy lets him do it. Raven is blowing out the candles and putting his clothes away. ‘Open the windows,’ Murphy tells her. ‘I don’t want to die because Blake over here thinks he doesn’t need oxygen.’

‘Fine. You make sure he doesn’t collapse.’

‘Sure thing, boss. Also, Bellamy, I got something for ya.’ Murphy puts something on the bridge of Bellamy’s nose, and suddenly he can see again. ‘One thing at a time.’

He seems Murphy a little more clearly now, and remembers they’re _friends_. Murphy doesn’t even look as stern, or harsh anymore. There is concern in the blue of his eyes, and the crinkles around them, and the way he’s smirking but not really.

Bellamy coughs. His face is still wet, but the tears stop running.

Raven walks up to them. ‘Bellamy, you need to stop moping around and get back to your life. It’s been three weeks. Your friends miss you. Octavia misses you and she’s worried out of your mind and pissed off that she couldn’t be here doing this herself.’

All he hears out of that is the three weeks. It can’t be three weeks – hardly two. He would’ve known.

He would’ve known.

‘Bellamy.’

‘Raven, you’re too gentle.’

‘Murphy—’

‘No. Let me do this.’ He turns back to Bellamy, and sighs. ‘Bellamy, the way you look makes me think you are one bad day away from joining her in that grave. I already lost one of my closest friends. I’m not losing another one because he’s an idiot.’

‘ _Murphy_!’

‘Raven, I told you I got this. Can you open the windows, please?’

She finally does as told. Bellamy doesn’t protest this time, instead stares at Murphy. Tries to read his face.

Unlike Raven, Bellamy notices now, Murphy doesn’t excuse Bellamy’s way of mourning. There is very little sympathy and a lot of disappointment on the boy’s face, and partly, Bellamy understands. A wave of guilt washes over him, and he shudders.

Bellamy forgot he’s not the only one who lost a friend that day.

He struggles to remember that Murphy is a _friend_ and that Raven is one, too, but does it. He struggles to raise a hand but Murphy sees and helps him to his feet, holding one arm around his waist.

‘There we go,’ Murphy says. He smiles, and it’s sad. There’s no snicker in it. Instead, there is kindness, worry, and so much _pain—_

 ‘Would Clarke want this? You wasting your life away because you can’t face reality?’

Bellamy clenches his jaw. ‘I don’t know what she would want.’

‘I do. It’s not this.’

They walk in silence. Murphy brings him to the couch and sits him down, plopping down next to him. Raven puts some music on and Bellamy watches her and Murphy makes his flat look a little less like a projection of his internal state. Bit by bit, it gets better. Bit by bit, he begins to feel a little more aware of what’s happening.

Taking a break, they sit on each side of him.

‘You’re going to be fine,’ Murphy tells him in a strong voice. ‘You’re not alone. You’ve got us, and Octavia, and everyone else.’

‘Yeah,’ agrees Raven. ‘Everyone’s been asking about you. We wanted to give you some space, but…’

‘There’s only so much time we can give you before you destroy yourself. We need you and you need us. You had three weeks, but we need our Bellamy back. Right now, both you and your place are a fucking mess. You look less like twenty-three and more like thirty-two. When’s the last time you shaved?’

Bellamy doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember a lot of things.

‘And you smell,’ Raven adds.

‘C’mon. Let’s get you back to life.’

Raven smiles at him and wraps her arm around him in a half-hug, pulling a protesting Murphy into it as well. Bellamy feels warm. He feels like they’re doing so much better than he is. He feels like he betrayed them, because he forgot he isn’t alone in this. He isn’t the only person mourning her. He isn’t the only one needing support during these shitty times.

So he says, ‘I’m sorry.’

This time he’s aware of his voice and it’s raspy and harsh and he feels like he hasn’t spoken in ages.

‘Bellamy,’ Raven says, in the softest voice he’s ever heard coming from her, ‘you deal with this by going through one hour at a time. Then one day at a time. Then when a week. At some point, it’ll become easier.’

He’s already lost his mom and he was even younger then. But he thinks it’s because he was ready – he knew he was going to lose her to cancer. He knew he couldn’t do anything. But _her_ … nobody was prepared. And his mum, he loved her because she was his mum. Not with _her_ – Bellamy _chose_ to love her.

‘You can’t stop living your life because she lost hers,’ Murphy says.

It hurts.

But it’s the truth.

For the next few hours, the duo simultaneously cleans his flat and him. Murphy helps him take a shower and he grunts and complains about it the whole time, which takes Bellamy’s mind off of everything that’s been happening. Raven complains about how dirty he’s been and the smell of some of the clothes and the stains that look contaminating and he listens. When Murphy is shaving him and telling him about all the “shit-show” that’s been happening with their mechanic shop, and Emori’s way of dealing with it, he even manages to smile a little. When Raven welcomes them out of the bathroom to a clean flat and a homemade meal of rice and meat, he feels like he’s going to cry again.

Raven puts him to sleep, in his bed, with clean sheets. They stay over, for the next few days, and take him out grocery shopping. Raven makes him help her cook and Murphy makes him help fixing the things Bellamy’s broken around the flat.

They don’t leave his side.

That first night, Bellamy sleeps like a baby, for the first time in three weeks.


	4. five weeks after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s looking at her with a smile on his face. Octavia is smiling, too, and her lips spread wide close just a little bit, and her eyes drop to the floor. He sees her looking at him through her long eyelashes, just like any other time she gets shy in front of him, and he loves her so much for it.
> 
> ‘O,’ he starts. He wraps his arms around her again and this time, she stays there. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
> 
> He didn’t get to say some things he wishes he could’ve, to Octavia and some other people. Life is too fucking short to waste any opportunity to let people know how much they mean to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter features a guest appearance from a familiar someone... or _someones_. i also added the alcoholism trigger warning, because it may not be done really well, but it's there. i promise i'll fix it once i'm done writing this whole thing and i edit it.
> 
> also, i know i said updates on wednesdays, but i have a friend coming over and staying for two weeks so i can't make any promises that i'll update next wednesday. if i do, then i can't make the promise to update on the wednesday after that because so far, i only have one prewritten chapter left and am working on the second one. 
> 
> one more thing: i reduced the number of expected chapters from 11 to 10 because i realized that i miscalculated. one prologue-ish style chapter, eight proper chapters, and one epilogue-ish style chapter.

It’s not easy for Bellamy to get better. Murphy and Raven make sure at least one of them comes by every day and eat lunch or dinner with him, because he developed a tendency of skipping meals. Raven comes before her shifts, twice a week, and takes him to a grocery store. Murphy comes after his shifts, glad to get away from the job for a little while. They bring Emori over, twice, and Bellamy enjoys her snarky presence. Monty and Jasper stop by and let him try some of their concoctions, saying they’ve found investors from relatively high-up businesses. Jasper informs him on how his co-workers at the _Dropship_ are doing, and Bellamy realizes he misses his job.

‘It was about time you started thinking about coming back,’ Jasper tells him. ‘Pike’s had to find a new guy, some Miller, to fill in for you. He’s cool. But Pike still says you’re his best.’

‘A totally impartial boss,’ Monty chimes in.

‘Gina is unbearable without you, she’s acting too much like a mum. Even Harper—’

‘Watch what you say.’

Jasper hits the back of Monty’s head, lightly, rolling his eyes. ‘Anyway, we all miss you. It’s not the same without you.’

Sometimes he’s better, when he’s with his friends. When he realizes how much he misses everybody, and how much being around other people helps.

Sometimes, truth catches up to him.

‘You’ve lost nearly thirty pounds,’ Raven tells him.

‘I’ve gained some of the weight back.’

‘You mean you’ve lost more than that? I think you should go see a doctor.’

‘I can’t—’

‘Afford it. I know. I’m sure Abby would be able to tell if you’re going to collapse one day, without charging you.’

He can’t face her mum. They haven’t spoken since before the funeral and arguably, Abby and she haven’t been the closest for a while. When her father died, she didn’t take it very well. When she found out it was Abby who pulled the plug when the doctors said there’s a chance he might recover with some brain damage, something cracked between the two and it took her two years to even _think_ about forgiving her mother. When Kane came into the picture and Abby got married almost months of knowing him, she couldn’t understand that, either. But they were healing. A little bit, slowly, but they were getting there.

Bellamy puts his spoon on the table and pushes the cereal bowl away. His stomach is churning but his appetite is gone.

She and Abby are never going to get to a point where they’re truly a family again.

‘Bellamy.’ Raven’s hand finds a way across the table to his. She squeezes it lightly, smiling only ever so much. ‘I’m worried about you.’

‘I’ll be fine. Eventually,’ he adds, because it doesn’t sound convincing enough.

‘I know you will be, just don’t let it be too long until you are. I’m sure Clarke wouldn’t want—’

‘I think I’m full. Thanks for stopping by, but Octavia is spending the weekend so I should clean up a little.’

He doesn’t wait for her reply when he gets up. It doesn’t matter that the flat is almost impeccable, with just a few things scattered here and there. It doesn’t, because Bellamy is not particularly trying to hide the fact that he doesn’t want to talk about _her_. Raven knows it. Instead, he occupies himself with some cleaning, starting with their dishes, and washes them immediately. Before long, Raven shuts the door behind her, and he is left to this own again.

There is a box, inside his head. A tiny, metallic compartment that looks like a solitary cell. It’s grey and dull because Bellamy doesn’t like thinking about it.

Inside the cell, he sees _her_.

Her hair is in a braid, blonde and messy as she always wore it. Her hair always slips out and frames her face, the strands making it softer when she’s trying to be angry at him. Sometimes she draws; there’s crayons in the box with her, and she uses them to create masterpieces. They are all the ones he’s seen her create when she was—

Sometimes he talks to her. When he’s drunk. Imagines he can.

It hasn’t happened in a while; she has been locked inside the box inside his mind for two weeks now.

He misses her. So, _so_ badly. He longs for her touch; her palm on his when they’re running from the rain on her twenty-second birthday; her head resting on his shoulder when she falls asleep watching a documentary about ancient Greece; her playful bumps at the back of his head when he says something outright stupid.

Jasper picked up the habit from her. Just one of the ways she can never be completely gone.

An hour and half later, his sister shows up at the doorbell. He opens the door and Octavia leaps into his arms, just like when she was younger. In his eyes, she is still just a kid.

‘Bellamy, you have no idea how good it is to finally see you.’

Octavia hugs him tightly, not letting go, and he lets himself find comfort in it. He’s rubbing small circles around her back, a habit he didn’t think he still had. She smells like her chocolate shampoo, the intercity bus, and something unfamiliar but very _raw_ – must be the college dorms. Her brown hair is braided in a style he hasn’t seen before.

They part, and Octavia notices him looking at her braids. ‘They’re the courtesy of Niylah, my roommate. You’d like her.’

‘Would I?’

‘Hm. Probably not.’

‘Do you like her?’

‘She’s amazing! I couldn’t not like her, Bell.’

‘Eh. I guess that’s fine.’ He closes the door behind her and gives her a stern look. ‘For now.’

When she enters the flat, Bellamy watches her look for anything out of order. Empty bottles, cigarette butts, broken glass, leftover food, _anything_ – but she doesn’t find it. Instead, he leads her to the dining table, where he’s served a meal he and Raven learned to cook together. He forgot the name of it, but it’s basically chicken breast in a sauce with vegetables on the side, only it looks a lot fancier than it sounds. There is Johnny Cash playing in the living room, quietly enough to not disturb any conversation. It even smells really good, like a proper restaurant.

There are no signs of Bellamy being anything but well.

‘Wow,’ Octavia says, and he can hear the awe in her voice. ‘Bell, this looks _amazing_.’

‘Thanks.’ He tries not to show how much it means to him, so he looks at the door into the living room when he smiles. ‘You can just leave your stuff into the living room for now. We can sort it out later. What would you like to drink?’

‘Some juice sounds good right now. Cold.’

Bellamy opens the fridge door, peeking at Octavia from behind it. ‘Is orange juice okay?’

‘It’s perfect, thanks.’

He brings two glasses to the table and a bottle of orange juice. When he sits across his sister, he catches her looking at the glasses and biting her lip, before she reaches for one. She doesn’t say anything. Her fingers are on the glass, unmoving, and she hasn’t looked away; her lips are trembling, just a little bit, and Bellamy sees his sister fighting with herself on the inside.

His eyes fall to the glass, too, and he remembers.

Bellamy remembers Octavia being five and Bellamy buying her orange juice, when he saved up the money to treat her. She’s little, barely reaching to his shoulder, and her dark hair is all tangled from playing outside. She’s thirsty, he can tell, but there is nothing more beautiful than her smile when she sees what he’s holding in his hand.

_You got me orange juice!_

He remembers smiling as she drinks it. Her eyes close and flutter as she sips, and her happiness fills his heart. _You deserve it_.

‘Fuck.’

Those same dark eyes that were shining at the sight of orange juice all those years ago are shining now, too – only so because there are tears in them.

‘Bellamy—’

He fucked up. He forgot. He _forgot_. His fucking _sister_. He should’ve remembered that orange juice is her favourite thing in the world, how didn’t he? Why didn’t it cross his mind?

Bellamy’s head starts spiralling and he catches the edge of the chair as something to hold on to. The world is spinning, just a little bit, but it’s not spinning at all and he’s nauseous and _how many this have I forgotten_? How many pieces of information are stored in his brain, but lost until he finds them again? _What else have I lost_?

Her. He lost her.

Bellamy’s breath is shallow. He doesn’t notice Octavia talking to him, or snapping her fingers at him, or Octavia at all until she is by his side and wrapping her tiny but strong arms around him.

For once, Bellamy lets himself cry and feel safe in someone else’s arms.

 _We’re family_ , she says to him when they’re twenty and scared of the future. _We always will be._

Bellamy can’t see her ever again, but he still has other family. He has Octavia. He’s not alone.

He’s not alone.

It takes him a while, but he brings himself to a point where he doesn’t need to shield his emotions from Octavia anymore, because he bottles them so deep that even he can’t reach them. His sister lets go of him and walks over to the other side of the table, and the sight of the two of them looks nothing out of place. Bellamy brings out a joke and Octavia laughs, a little surprised, but the soft sound warms Bellamy’s heart just a little bit – just enough to appreciate the fact that his sister is here, with him.

They don’t talk about what happened, because the Blake siblings sweep shit like that under the rug. And move on.

Octavia spends the weekend and it’s quiet and calm, and Bellamy enjoys it. They don’t talk about anything other than Octavia’s life as a college student. It’s something Bellamy will never get, but he doesn’t say that to her.

He doesn’t say a lot of things to her. Because she’s not the person he’d usually come to with stuff like that.

But that person is gone, so Bellamy just keeps quiet, and lets his sister talk.

There is only one time when Octavia breaks her brother’s barriers. It’s at the bus station, which Bellamy has helped her get to, and it’s one of the first times when going outside of his apartment doesn’t fill him with fright and dread. There is no anxiety as he smiles with his arm around his little sister’s shoulders, kissing the top of her head until she wiggles out of his reach. Bellamy laughs, and it’s honest, and he’s so fucking _thankful_ for a sister like Octavia. She’s still small, and he still sees her as fragile, but she’s a grown woman now and he couldn’t be happier with the woman she’s become.

He’s looking at her with a smile on his face. Octavia is smiling, too, and her lips spread wide close just a little bit, and her eyes drop to the floor. He sees her looking at him through her long eyelashes, just like any other time she gets shy in front of him, and he loves her so much for it.

‘O,’ he starts. He wraps his arms around her again and this time, she stays there. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

He didn’t get to say some things he wishes he could’ve, to Octavia and some other people. Life is too fucking short to waste any opportunity to let people know how much they mean to you.

There is something wet on his shirt, where Octavia’s face is, and his own tear drops not far from there. ‘I love you so much, Octavia. Mum would be so proud of you, too.’

Octavia’s arms at his waist tug him even closer, and she buries her head in his chest even more so that it was before. She lets out a little sob, but Bellamy doesn’t stop smiling. ‘Bell, she’d be proud of you, too. And so would Clarke.’

Bellamy pulls back and looks away. Octavia notices – she knows him too well.

‘You can’t keep igno—’

‘Your bus is here,’ interrupts Bellamy.

He can’t look her in the eye, so she grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls him closer. ‘You need to _wake up_. She’s _gone_.’

His jaw clenches and so do his fists. He hears the pulse echoing in his ears and his mouth goes dry. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

Octavia pulls him into a last hug, one that he can’t get away from. ‘I know you loved her. But you have to let her go.’

He says nothing.

‘I thought I’d be able to help you, no matter what everybody else said. But I can’t. I tried.’ She is whispering words into his ear, holding him tight so he can’t let go. He can’t not hear what she has to say. He can’t escape Octavia’s opinion, just like any time before. When she says the next words, her voice is shaky and she finally lets go. ‘I’m sorry, Bell.’

Bellamy kisses the top of her head, one last time, and watches her board the bus.

‘See you soon, O.’

Octavia waves at him from the back of the bus. Her hair is in a ponytail, today, and she’s wearing one of the brown sweaters she took from his drawer. She leans with her cheek pressed against the window, and smiles. Her palm is against the window, too, and she doesn’t look a day older than when they took her away from him after their mom died; when he thought he lost her forever.

She got back to him. She always does.

The bus driver starts the engine and Bellamy watches his sister leave, again. The realization that he’s alone again doesn’t settle in until the bus is long gone and he is almost back at his flat.

It settles in like a bomb. Heavy inside his chest and clogging up his lungs, the bomb is ticking and Bellamy doesn’t know what the countdown is for. His limbs feel heavy as he walks up the three flights of stairs and unlocks the door. The silence is like needles on his skin, so he puts the same record he was listening to when Octavia came.

The bomb is ticking at a steady pace; a metronome of life.

He sits down on the couch. His eyes feel heavy under the weight of living so he closes them, indulging in what little peace he can get from it.

 ‘Bellamy.’

The bomb explodes. He can’t breathe. He can’t open his eyes. He can’t move. He can’t _think_.

His skin is needles and his blood is poison and he is _burning_ and he can’t even open his eyes. He hears the voice, calling him, one more time, and he feels an acidic taste crawling up his throat. He feels cold all over his body. He feels faint.

He can’t breathe.

‘Bellamy, _breathe_.’

The voice is panicked. The voice is familiar. Bellamy wants to think about it, but the acidic taste reaches his mouth and leaves it all the same. He’s covered in vomit and he is shaking and there’s the punch to his gut he hasn’t felt since—

Bellamy opens his eyes.

At the end of the hallway, at the doorway into the living room, he sees someone he thought he’d never see again. She is more real than any time before – he can _feel_ her presence, in the same way he could feel Octavia’s not even hours ago. It’s soft and warm and she smells like some berries, like she always has, and her hair is soft and short just the way it was before—

She steps closer. The light from the kitchen touches her skin, and Bellamy can _see_ her. Her skin is almost colourless and there is no red in her cheeks, the way he’s used to. Her lips aren’t quirked in a smirk and her nose isn’t crunched up a little as it is whenever she finds him funny. Her eyes are here, but they’re so…Bellamy think they’re sad, but they’re not. They’re just – devoid of happiness. Of positivity. Of hope. It’s her face, but he hardly recognizes it. It’s her face from when she was suffering, when she kept losing and losing and when she lost _him_ , and it’s the face that welcomed him back into his life. When they rebuilt their relationship from a scratch, because they’d both lost too much to be the same. It’s the face that marked their growth, and the memories they’ve shared, and proved the bond they have is stronger than anything. It’s the face that Bellamy fell in love over and over again until it was gone, and happiness and hope replaced the void.

She smiles. It’s a pained smile, mirroring his own.

He shakes. He stands up and falls to his knees, and gets up and almost falls again. He tries until he’s standing right across from her, covered in vomit and hardly breathing and feeling as if the whole world has come undone.

Her name is a breath on his lips; it’s a prayer and a curse in one. ‘ _Clarke_.’

_You’re here._

But when he brings a hand to cup her cheek, his fingers go right through it, as if she isn’t here. And when he blinks, she isn’t.

He doesn’t even change his clothes before phoning Octavia. His sister answers immediately, worry in her voice. Bellamy looks to the place where only seconds ago, stood Clarke.

‘I saw her,’ he says. ‘She was in my living room. She’s…’ but he doesn’t know what she is.

‘Bellamy.’ On the other end, Octavia swallows back a cry. ‘You need to go see someone before it gets even worse. A professional.’

He hangs up.

Bellamy has his first drink that night, and it’s whiskey on rocks at a bar near his flat.


	5. six weeks after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘What is it that I’m going through?’
> 
> Her gaze softens and he feels alcohol get to his head a little bit as he can’t figure out what she’s thinking. It might be pity, sadness, or delight at his misery. Only, Gina would never gloat in someone else’s suffering – not a woman built out of kindness.
> 
> ‘You lost Clarke,’ she says, quietly, ‘and you never told her you loved her.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one week delay!! here it is, longer than usual, spicier than usual, more desperate than usual. this chapter was a pain to write and i had to force myself to go through it, so if it feels a little off, it's because of that. also, i'd just like to thank for all the kudos and comments you guys have been leaving, i love reading them ♥️

Misery is a wicked thing. It comes like an old friend, offering sympathetic words and an understanding no one else can. It’s a friend that lets you feel the hurt and the aching, lets you explore the darker parts of the situation, but once it’s done, it doesn’t let you move on to the good. It just stops. Makes you reflect on the bad, over and over again, until you realize you’re the only person who has every felt this way and until the end of days, it will be only you, and misery.

And, in Bellamy’s case, alcohol.

 _You need to go see someone before it gets even worse_ , Octavia’s words echo in his mind. _A professional._

And seeing _her_ in his hallway, looking like no more of a ghost than he is… No one could deal with that. All they’d do is tell him he’s gone off the rails, seeing shit that isn’t real and coping in a way that’s poster for unhealthy and irrational, but Bellamy doesn’t need a shrink to tell him that. He’s not an idiot; he knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t need to pay someone money to tell him he’s a broken shell of a person because the only person he _chose_ to love was taken away from him and everyone else who cared about her.

Sometimes, he gets messages from people he hardly knows. He’s been checking his Facebook and Instagram lately, and he saw he’s been tagged in quite a few posts of people saying their last goodbyes to Clarke. There are people messaging him, too, people he hasn’t spoken to in longer than he has. All of them letting him know he has support, if he needs anything, that they miss her too and can’t even being to imagine what it must feel like for him. Some of them are saying they’re praying for her, too, when they know all too well that Clarke never wanted to have anything to do with religion. God is no more than a promise for the ones who can’t bear the truth that life is what we make of it, not what someone else decides it will be. Bellamy wishes he could tell them all that they’re fucking wrong, and they have no right to even pretend they understand a single bit of what it feels to lose someone like Clarke, but it’s not what she’d want him to do.

She’d want him to do better. To be a better person than they are. To understand that sending their “prayers” means fuck all to someone who’s rotting six feet under, but not to say that to them, because that’s how they’re coping. That’s their way of dealing with the fact that Clarke isn’t waking up.

He knows what she’d say. _Alcohol isn’t the way, and neither is self-induced isolation from people who care about you_.

He knows, because she says it to him every time he sees her.

Bellamy finishes his vodka and slides the glass to the bartender. The boy doesn’t notice right away, but fills it up soon enough, with just a shy glance at his customer. Bellamy looks at him, as well as he can through his hazed vision. He’s a guy Bellamy’s age, but it doesn’t feel that way. He’s probably a year or two younger, but to Bellamy, after everything he’s been through in his life, it feels as if there is a decade separating them.

‘You doing all right, pal?’ asks the kid.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Macallan.’

‘Well, Macallan, are you in love with someone?’

The boy smiles and Bellamy finds a moment to appreciate his dimples, and the honesty of the expression. His mousy-haired with a soft face, on the taller side, and he has a kind vibe around him that makes Bellamy think he’s the type to get hurt easily. He reminds him of himself, before he went through shit and learned the hard way to be hard.

Macallan nods, solemnly, unable to contain his smile as he fills out a glass with beer for another customer. ‘Yeah. I am.’

‘Do they know?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you tell them every day?’

Macallan’s hands work around the beer and his face stiffens, just a little bit. ‘I try to.’

‘Good,’ Bellamy says. ‘That’s good. You never know when you can lose them, and if they don’t know that… You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.’

Neither of them say anything and Bellamy wonders if he overstepped the invisible line, maybe. His fingers trail the edge of the glass still filled with honey-coloured liquor, shaking as they do so. His other arm is resting against the wooden bar, supporting his head with the back of his hand, keeping him from falling even more apart. Bellamy is drunk, he knows that much, but he isn’t as drunk as he wishes to be. He might look like a mess—there’s no denying it would be the accurate representation of his internal state—but his life is a mess right now, too, and he’d like to drink until that no longer bothers him.

Macallan walks away to serve other customers, and Bellamy tries to remember if this really is what working as a bartender is like. Random drunks coming up to the bar, telling you their life stories and what they find to be solid life advice… Maybe that’s the part he never paid attention to. It was always so easy to just say they’re drunk and not deal with or think about them at all, period. That’s probably what is going through Macallan’s head right now, too. Bellamy’s just one of the people he has to listen to because he’s a nice bartender. There’s nothing in it for him, even if Bellamy does feel like the things he’s saying to him are the things he wishes someone told him before—before a part of his life ended on a random road in the middle of the night. Maybe someone has, but he didn’t listen.

He knows Macallan won’t listen. He watches him come back, lean against the bar with a kind smile on his face, and wonders if Bellamy ever looked as welcoming to any of his customers who were going through shit. _Probably not_ , he thinks. _I’m not the one for that stuff._

‘Life happens.’ Another glass appears beside his own, only it’s filled with water instead of alcohol. Macallan takes a sip. ‘Bad breakup?’

‘I wish.’

‘Wanna talk about it?’

He could tell Macallan what happened. At the end of the day, the boy will forget it within a few days at most and maybe it’ll offer him some judgement-free opinions. It would be nice to talk about … Clarke. He could say what she meant to him, and how much he wishes he could’ve saved her. Maybe he’d even say how he doesn’t think he’d be where he is right now if it wasn’t for her helping out with Octavia and his mom.

Bellamy lets out a heavy sigh, leaning back in the barstool. ‘I’m good.’

He can’t bother Macallan with the story.

Time passes and Bellamy doesn’t get any better, only drunker. Macallan comes to chat with him every now and then and he appreciates it, more than he thinks he should. He keeps forgetting that there’s people who care about him and are worried at his lack of communication, but he can’t bring himself to think about that. It’s easy to talk to Macallan because he has no ties to Clarke.

By the time clock above the bar strikes midnight, Bellamy is on his feet, with one hand on the bar for stability. His coat is hanging on his shoulders and his hair is in his face, greasy and unkempt, with lips dry and busted from alcohol. That’s who’s staring back at him in the mirror behind Macallan – Bellamy does look like he’s almost thirty.

‘You’re not driving, are you?’ asks Macallan. He hands Bellamy the rest of the cash, counting it in front of him. ‘I can call you a taxi.’

‘I’ll be fine. I live just down the street.’

‘Okay.’

He takes one last look at the mirror in front of him. He looks the way he feels and he doesn’t think wearing his heart on his sleeve is all that bad – not doing that this whole time is what brought him here, at the end of the day. So he turns his back to the Bellamy in the mirror and raises three fingers in goodbye to Macallan, when the boy calls for him.

‘We all need someone to stay,’ says Macallan. He looks at his hands, washing the dishes, and doesn’t look up again.

As he leaves the bar, Bellamy thinks how profound the words were. It takes him a solid ten minutes wandering around the streets and thinking about their meaning to realize they are actually song lyrics. The realization brings a smile to his face, one coming to him naturally and one he can’t stop.

 _We’re all just kids thinking we’re adults_ , Clarke told him once, and he can’t stop thinking about it. _We all use big words and do big stuff and want validation that we’re just like them. We grow up too quickly._ In his memory, she jabs a finger into his chest, smiling widely. _You grew up a decade before you should’ve._

His feet move one in front of the other and he is only half surprised to find himself in front of a building he hasn’t been to in weeks. It’s three stories tall, dark brown with green elements, and above the door on the ground floor is a sign with big, bold green letters stating the name of the bar. There’s not much he can see through the windows as the place looks quite empty, with only one girl who has a shift behind the bar. Her hair is brown and long and she’s pretty skinny, with a kind face that Bellamy almost forgot.

His palm lingers on the glass door for a second before he goes for it.

The Dropship smells like home. There’s alcohol and sweat and cinnamon, because of course Gina hides the scented candles behind the bar with her. The air is breezy and he can hear the quiet rock music playing from speakers at every corner, and there is light chatter at some of the tables.

Gina doesn’t notice him straight away. She is serving a customer at one of those tables, her honey-like laugh filling out the half-empty bar. He walks over to the bar, a little clumsily as quite a good bit of alcohol is still fuelling him alongside blood, and takes a seat. He takes off his coat, puts if over his lap, and waits.

She comes from behind him.

‘Bellamy?’ Her voice is unsure and _hopeful_ , and when he turns around with the smallest of smiles, she pulls him into the tightest hug. When she pulls back, her face shows she is unsure of what to do next, but she still smiles. ‘You reek of alcohol.’

Bellamy shrugs. ‘Been a rough couple of weeks.’

He watches Gina walk to the other side of the counter. Her hair is in a braid now, falling messily over her shoulder as she gives him a glass of water. She knows him and he knows her, better than most people, so he doesn’t feel threatened when her eyes don’t leave his face even for a second. She is studying him; diligently, trying to see any signs of cracks. The corners of her lips are curled and her nose is scrunched and her eyebrows furrowed together. When she realizes what she’s doing, she relaxes her face and smiles.

‘We missed you,’ she says.

Bellamy takes a swig out of the glass. His biceps itch but he keeps his hands firm on the wooden surface; his neck feels uncomfortable, as if he’s being watched, and he shakes his head.

‘How are you doing?’ asks Gina.

 _Like shit_ , Bellamy thinks about saying. _Like I’ve drank too much one too many times_. But he doesn’t say it, because Gina doesn’t let his eyes wander away and the gravity of her tone doesn’t let him deny the deeper meaning of the question.

‘Can I have a whiskey?’

Gina hesitates, but only for a second. ‘Sure. On the house.’

‘Thanks.’

She slides him a glass filled with honey-coloured liquor. His fingers trace the edges of the glass, like they always do, and he listens to the people in the background. It’s a nice white noise. He doesn’t need to pay attention to hear about their miserable little lives.

‘Bellamy, if you want to talk about it—’

‘No, Gina.’ He looks her dead in the eye. ‘I don’t think I do.’

She smiles, kindly, as she always does. ‘Whatever floats your boat. I just wanted to let you know I’m here if you want to talk.’

‘Why, because you pity me? Seeing your ex being crushed over his best friend’s death?’

‘No. I don’t pity you. I can only imagine what you’re going through.’

Bellamy downs the whiskey and slams the glass on the counter, cracking it at the very bottom. Gina gives him a side eye, but replaces the glass and fills it with more liquor. Her jaw is clenched and her eyes are stern, but her stare unwavering. She’s not letting him off the hook.

So Bellamy latches on to it. ‘What is it that I’m going through?’

Her gaze softens and he feels alcohol get to his head a little bit as he can’t figure out what she’s thinking. It might be pity, sadness, or delight at his misery. Only, Gina would never gloat in someone else’s suffering – not a woman built out of kindness.

‘You lost Clarke,’ she says, quietly, ‘and you never told her you loved her.’

Bellamy’s head falls. He can’t look Gina in the eye, not anymore. Not when his fingers are shaking and he curls them into a fist. The curls cover his face and he stops the sob in his throat – he can’t let himself be weak now. But he doesn’t have the strength. His body doesn’t listen to him and a tear starts rolling down his face, landing next to his glass before he can wipe it away.

He coughs. It comes out as a sob and at this point, he can hardly tell the difference.

Gina refills his whiskey. He can’t think whether that’s good or bad.

‘I didn’t—think. Think anyone knew.’

‘I knew you, Bellamy. We dated for a year and when I realized you would always love her more than you could love me, I let go of you.’

He didn’t know that. He thought – _We aren’t good for each other, Bellamy_ , is what she told him.

He remembers cradling her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek and wondering if she’s not crying because she’s strong, or because she doesn’t care about him enough. He asks her, _Why?_

She doesn’t give an answer immediately. When she does, it comes with a smile. _Because we’re just not each other’s great love_.

She kissed him then for the last time. It took him months to get over her, but she never let him forget her. They still worked at the same bar and they were still friends, and she never stopped showing him how much she cared for him, as a boyfriend or just a friend. She has always been one of the best people in his life. One of the people he couldn’t bear to lose.

Just like he couldn’t bear to lose Clarke.

‘I’m sorry,’ he chokes out of himself. ‘I never meant to hurt you.’

‘I know. It wasn’t your fault.’

‘It was.’

‘You couldn’t help yourself. You weren’t even aware of it, any of it.’

‘Any of it?’

Gina hesitates, again, but this time it’s longer than a second. She leans in, softly, and runs her fingers through his greasy hair. Her hand remains on his cheek, her thumb stroking it just like he’d always to do her when he was trying to calm her down. Bellamy leans into the touch, wanting to close his eyes but not daring to.

Gina places a kiss on his forehead. ‘She loved you too.’

Bellamy closes his eyes and, for a moment, it’s Clarke saying those words.

He flinches. Gina drops her hand and turns her back to him.

‘I didn’t know,’ he says, quietly. ‘I didn’t know I loved her until—until it was…’ _too late_ , he wants to say, but can’t. ‘I didn’t.’

 _I love you_ , Clarke’s said to him more than a million times, but never the way lovers do. She’d say it when reassuring him that he still has worth, that there’s people who care about him and that she’s one of them. She says it to him when he shows up at her doorstep with a bottle of champagne and news that Octavia has been accepted into Ark University. She says it to him when he needs to hear it, and so does he. When her dad dies and he’s the person she comes crying to, or when her boyfriend cheats on her, or when she accepts her offer at University of Polis because she doesn’t want to leave the town and the life she has here.

He hears her say it, over and over again, with softness only her voice can carry.

Bellamy knows she’s always loved him, just like he’s loved her from the beginning of eternity. There are different types of love and the one they admitted to each other was more, just _more_. It would be two parts of a whole touching at the cut segments of their souls; two atoms finally meeting for the first time since the creation of matter. Compared to that, romantic love he so regrets not expressing is miniscule, but it would’ve made them complete. It would’ve been the last atoms their souls lacked when they touched.

And Bellamy is never going to forgive himself for not letting her know.

‘She knew.’ Gina’s voice brings him back to reality, back to the Dropship, and he feels the gravity tugging him down. ‘You couldn’t have loved her more.’

He doesn’t dispute that. Instead, his head falls forward and he loses strength in his elbows, crashing against the wood.

Her voice calls his name. It’s almost as if he can feel her fingers on his shoulder blades, rubbing them until he finds enough strength in himself, with Gina’s help, to push himself off the counter.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. He doesn’t know what he’s apologising for this time.

‘Go sit in a booth. I’ll get Murphy.’

Bellamy does as he was told. He doesn’t hear, or listen, or see, or watch, because all of that means he’ll see Clarke.

 _You’re a fool_ , a voice inside his head tells him. _You tell yourself you don’t want to see her yet you bring yourself to a state where you can._

He doesn’t argue this time, either.

Gina comes to check up on him every few minutes, staying with him as long as she can. She brings him a glass of cold water that he takes only one sip of, knowing one glass won’t do him much good. She even gives him a wet clot to put over his forehead because his head is spinning and drumming and a shaking a little, and that helps. Her voice doesn’t waver whenever she’s near him. It becomes a melody instead, merging with a memory of their time together, and Bellamy finds himself wishing for simpler times.

Murphy shows up and Bellamy hardly notices. All the alcohol is catching up to him and they don’t speak in the car ride to his place. He only vaguely remembers Gina pulling him into a hug and Murphy putting one arm under his shoulder, supporting him as they walk. The stairs to Bellamy’s are a wreck and Murphy’s voice is just a mesh of curses and random words, all mostly aimed at Bellamy.

Bellamy lies in his bed, head spinning, with Murphy working his way around Bellamy’s flat. He changes his clothes, gives him a shower, some food, and whatever he thinks Bellamy could need. There’s a bottle of water at his nightstand with an Aspirin pill right next to it, some street light peering through the curtains.

Once he’s made sure Bellamy’s got everything he could possibly need—including a bucket by his side of the bed—he sits down, cursing once more.

‘You can’t keep doing this to yourself,’ Murphy says.

The boy underneath the cover hardly comprehends the words. ‘The world is a shithole.’

Murphy laughs. ‘That’s the truest thing you’ve ever said.’ He’s quiet for a while, and Bellamy wonders if he’s been drinking, too. ‘Yet we keep living in it because we’re scared of what comes after.’

Bellamy says nothing. It seems like Murphy is having a moment. He’d laugh, if he didn’t know that would only make him get rid of his gastric juices in a vile manner.

So, Murphy continues. ‘Everybody wants to have a better life but nobody wants to do a fucking thing about it. We’re so scared of death and judgement that we’re terrified of changing anything. Doing shit we’re scared of. So we lose people.’ His voice falters and breaks, and he cleans his throat. Laughs, croakily. ‘I’m tired of losing.’

‘Me too,’ Bellamy whispers.

‘You need to close your eyes and shut the fuck up. If you understand what I’m feeling right now, then you won’t make me lose any more than I already have.’

So Bellamy closes his eyes. He sees the stars and the world spins a little faster and he grips onto the bedsheets, but it doesn’t take long to calm down. Next to him, he feels Murphy get off the bed, but he doesn’t hear him leave the room. He opens his eyes for a moment, only to see a blurred Murphy standing in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, looking through the window.

He doesn’t do anything, for a few moments. Then he says, ‘I miss her so fucking much.’

The silence that follows Murphy’s footsteps out of the apartment is heavy, ridden with a guilt Bellamy didn’t know his friend possessed. It’s sick, almost poisonous, resembling the air from a box that laid unopened too long.

He hears Murphy lock the door. He doesn’t move when he feels a weight on the other side of the bed rise, when there’s a familiar sound of sneakers trailing around the bedframe, and he doesn’t open his eyes when they come to a halt somewhere right in front of him. His eyelids flutter and he grips on the sheet once again, in an attempt at taking his mind off of his imagination.

 _It’s not real_ , he tells himself. _It can’t be_.

The time between his breaths decreases and his heartrate spikes up.

‘Bellamy.’

All his defences fall. He opens his eyes.

To his right, her shape is wrapped into a soft glow coming from the windows, and the contrast makes it difficult to see her face. But she looks exactly the way she looked all those nights ago when he first saw her, and even today, when she tried talking him into going home.

She crouches and places her hands on the bed, right next to him. There is a wide smile on her face, but it looks distorted, _wrong_. It’s almost a nightmare coming to him pretending to be a dream.

But he can’t help it.

‘Clarke.’ Her name is a gutter on his lips and he doesn’t stop his hand from reaching for her, cupping her face. She leans into his hand, cold as ice. ‘I’m so sorry. For everything.’

She keeps smiling. ‘If you want forgiveness, I’ll give it to you.’

‘I miss you.’

‘I know.’ Clarke doesn’t say she misses him too. ‘I think you should go to sleep.’

‘Why are you here?’ he asks. ‘Are you even real?’

Another silence falls upon the room as she gets to her feet and distances herself from him. He watches her stand next to the window, her arms in front of her. They look pale, as they always have, but he realizes that the glow he thought was the street lights around her isn’t that – it’s the light going _through_ her, if he focuses enough to look.

When she glances up, he can’t decipher her face.

‘I don’t know,’ she whispers.

He pushes himself into a seating position, cursing the world as it spins before his eyes. He waits, until he’s okay enough to get up, and walks over to her. Her hands are cold in his, but he doesn’t let go. ‘Are you a ghost or a figment of my imagination?’

‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’ She reaches for his face, placing a thumb over his lip. There is a sad smile on her face. ‘You’ve never believed in ghosts anyway.’

Bellamy wishes he could laugh. Instead, he covers her hand with his, still holding the other one. ‘I’m—I’m glad you’re here.’

‘Me, too. I just wish I was—’ Her voice cracks. Clarke looks at her feet, and as hair shields almost the entirety of her face from him, he notices a shiny stream trailing down each of her cheeks. Her voice is hoarse when she speaks again: ‘I wish I was alive.’

His arms wrap around her naturally, the way they have done a thousand times. She is small and soft, and still smells like chocolate. Her hair is soft underneath his fingers and her body responds to his touch as if it were its second nature. She is fragile and she is trembling and she is _so fucking cold_ , but he doesn’t care.

He thought he’d never get to hug her again. He’ll take this ghostly, pale version over that any day.

‘You’re so warm,’ she whispers into his chest.

‘ _Clarke_.’

He holds her close and he holds her tight, because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get the chance to do it again.

‘Bellamy, I’m feeling weak.’ Terror in her voice.

‘Shh,’ he says. ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m with you.’

He knows she must’ve noticed the wet patches of her hair, all salty and his.

But Clarke pushes her way out of his arms and takes a step back, fright written all over her face. Her features are less defined and he’s more convinced that he’s attributing them to her, making her look the way she always has. Her eyes close and her eyelids flutter, and her lips tremble, and her hands reach for his.

When she opens her eyes, they are white. ‘Bellamy, I’m—I’m fading.’

Her eyes go wide and she looks at him with a small smile, the shy one, the one he’s seen a million times. ‘Oh.’ Her voice is soft and fragile, but she isn’t afraid any longer.

‘Clarke—’

He blinks and she’s gone.

‘Clarke! NO! Clarke, come back, I—Don’t go, you’re—you’re safe with me. _CLARKE_!’

The world shatters and Bellamy falls to his knees. He sits there, for what feels like hours, waiting for her to come back.

This time, she doesn’t.


	6. eight weeks after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miller leaves to tend to the customer and Bellamy finishes up his job. His thoughts wander, far from the Dropship, to a place they keep coming back to whenever he’s alone for more than a second. He sees her face in his bedroom, pale and beautiful, so fragile, so—
> 
> ‘—amy. Hey, Bellamy!’
> 
> There’s a hand being waved in front of his face, one that very obviously belongs to Miller. Bellamy blinks a couple of times, enough to gain composure.
> 
> ‘Yeah?’
> 
> ‘She asked for you,’ Miller says, nodding in the direction where one person is sitting at a table. ‘Said you know her.’
> 
> Bellamy’s eyes fall on the girl turned to him with her back. His heart sinks to his stomach because he recognizes her instantly, and wishes he didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay!! i had absolutely zero inspiration for this chapter for ages, but i love it now that it's done. also trigger warning for a manipulative relationship and a really fucking awful lexa. (no hate towards the actual character)

Getting better isn’t easy. Bellamy faces this again and this time, he isn’t just letting people help him get better – he’s doing it himself. He doesn’t just get out of the house, he goes into the Dropship, straight to Pike, and asks for his job back. He gets a dog, too, because Clarke would always tell him he’s gets lonely and agitated if he’s left to live alone for too long – he’s used to taking care of others. Maybe taking care of the little Cleopatra will help him get better, too.

This time, Bellamy really _tries_. And he does get a little better and he feels like this time, he isn’t just fooling himself.

He accepts the fact that Clarke is gone. It hurts. It does. But it’s the truth and it’s life and sooner or later, he needs to face it.

When he walks Cleo, life gets a little easier. He’s picking up dog poo because Cleo is from a shelter and apparently no one ever taught her that you’re not supposed to just walk and poop, but Bellamy tries. He laughs when Cleo brings him a stick, runs after her when she escapes the leash because god knows Bellamy has never taken care of an animal before.

Cleo is good for him. She’s black, a mutt of too many breeds to count, but she’s as beautiful as they get and she’s big enough to barely fit in his arms, and that’s all that matters.

As they’re walking through Park Shumway, Cleo tugs at the leash. She’s barking at the people passing and some of them seem a little scared, others stopping to pet her. This calms her down, and Bellamy understands. It’s nice when others give you the attention you want.

Bellamy releases a chuckle when the latest young couple walks away from her with a smile, and Cleo just turns around and looks at him with those big, self-satisfied eyes. He crouches and she comes to him, pushing her nuzzle in-between his shoulder and his neck. Bellamy scratches her behind her ears and she barks.

‘You’re a big girl. Three, or four years old. Isn’t that almost adult in dog world?’ Cleo barks and licks the side of his face. ‘Cleo! You should stop being such an attention seeker.’

Cleo barks again and pushes him, making him almost fall over. Bellamy hears someone cooing and just rolls his eyes when Cleo whines at whoever is passing by. He gets to his feet and starts walking away, his dog following promptly.

‘You need to learn how to walk by my side, Cleo.’

The dog just barks. It’s all she ever does, but Bellamy can’t find it in himself to tell her to stop. He can’t be stern with her, and she’s definitely exploiting that, just like Octavia always has.

It’s a nice day outside. The weather is warm and windy and the sun is peeking from between the clouds every now and then. Hearing chatter around him makes him feel like he belongs a little more, in this place where people just pass each other without much notice. He likes the invisibility in the face of everyone. He likes the fresh air, and Cleo dragging him outside twice a day because being in his apartment is too much for her.

His phone rings and he picks it up. ‘Hey, O.’

‘Can I talk to Cleo?’

‘Fine.’

‘Wait. I’ll put her on FaceTime.’

Bellamy waits as Octavia hangs up and phones again, this time with her icon popping up over the whole screen. Bellamy walks over to the nearest empty bench and sits down, with Cleo placing her paws over his knees, and answers the call. Cleo jumps on the bench right next to him and she looks at his sister, barking.

‘Cleo! Oh my god, Cleo, you’re so cute! I can’t wait to meet you, honestly, oh my god, Niylah come look! She’s so adorable!’

Cleo barks at the screen, trying to lick it, but enjoying the attention very much. Bellamy watches as Octavia’s roommate—whom he’s spoken to for the first time only at the beginning of the week—coos at Cleo just like his sister does. They talk to Cleo for a solid five minutes and Bellamy just watches and laughs. He doesn’t even pretend that he’s not enjoying this, too. It’s been too long since he felt this normal.

He’s grateful for Cleo. Really, really fucking grateful.

Octavia ends up asking to speak to him once Cleo loses interest, and they discuss plans for when she’ll come home next. They’re in the middle of the conversation when Cleo starts barking. Bellamy doesn’t notice her tug on the leash until it’s too late – and she’s charging for a man running in their direction.

‘CLEO! STOP! _CLEO!_ ’

Bellamy’s on his feet within a second, phone safe in his pocket. Cleo’s fast and so is the man; he tries running around her but trips over her, landing in mud right next to the sidewalk. He’s grunting, and he’s about to get up and Bellamy’s about to help him when Cleo barks, again.

‘Cleo,’ says Bellamy, voice low and threatening. He turns to the man and extends a hand, which ends up being swatted away. ‘I’m sorry, she’s never beh—’

Bellamy nearly has the wind knocked out of him when another man lunges for the one on the ground. Distraught, he takes a step back and Cleo does the same, and Bellamy is just…

 _What the fuck do I do_?

‘What…’ he begins, when the second man takes something out of the other’s pocket. A brown, leather wallet that looks quite expensive. ‘What is going on?’

 ‘You’re under arrest for theft and assault of a police officer. You have the right to remain silent.’

Bellamy watches, confounded, Cleo at his feet. She nuzzles her head into his legs and he pets her, almost dazed at the sight. He’s far from being the only one – a small group of people formed to see what is going on when the police officer puts the thief into handcuffs, if Bellamy’s got the story right.

‘Sir,’ says Bellamy. ‘Excuse me. Have you got any proof?’

The man whips out the brown wallet and shows him the ID, identifying him as Roan Azgeda, a detective. Brown hair that reaches to his shoulders, strong brow and facial features, and definitely a permanent agitated look etched onto his face.

‘Sorry.’ Bellamy swallows dryly. ‘Didn’t mean to offend you.’

‘All good, sir. I’m glad you checked. At least shows you have half a mind not to believe everything that you see.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m Roan, by the way. Is that your dog who helped me?’

‘That’s Cleopatra.’ At the sound of her name, she barks. ‘Cleo for short. Quite friendly.’

Roan crouches, still holding tight onto the guy he’d just caught, and scratches Cleo between the ears. The dog whines and comes closer to him, bringing a laugh out of the stern-looking man. ‘Good judge of character, too.’

Bellamy smiles. ‘That, for sure. I’m Bellamy.’

They shake hands. Roan seems confident in his skills of keeping the offender still and Bellamy keeps an eye on him, just in case. The crowd begins to disperse a little bit, but some people go ahead to pet Cleo, and she’s definitely loving it.

‘Well, thanks for helping out, Bellamy. And Cleo. Thanks for the help, girl.’ He looks at Bellamy, grinning widely. ‘Give her one hell of a treat. She earned it.’

‘Will do.’ Bellamy nods. What are you even supposed to do in situations like these?

The two begin to walk away and as Bellamy watches them, he hears the criminal speak up: ‘Didn’t know you were a fucking cop, man.’

Bellamy laughs. He’s got one hell of a story to tell.

His co-worker, Miller—he keeps needing to remind himself that’s the new one Jasper told him about—is the first one to hear the story. He finds it funny, laughing as Bellamy mops the floor, and says he’d love to meet Cleo.

‘Everybody does,’ retorts Bellamy. ‘She’s the most popular girl in town.’

Miller, Bellamy discovers, is a really cool guy but in his own way that he hasn’t had the chance to see before. He’s quiet, mostly, and form that he’d expect him to be all silent and weird, but he’s just the opposite – the customers seem to have taken a liking to him, as he is all smiles with them, all fluttery laughs and kind voice. He reminds Bellamy of Murphy, a little bit. It’s almost as if he, too, spent some time living life on the wrong side of the tracks before he came back, kinder and wiser and all the more aware of the lack of those in the world.

He doesn’t ask questions, either, and it seems that the others must’ve told him about what had been going on with Bellamy, explaining his absence.

They’re cleaning up now, mostly, as there’s not a lot of customers at this time of the day. The ones who use it as a café have gone back from their breaks and gone home, for the most part, and the others who use it as a pub haven’t arrived yet. Aside from him and the new guy, there’s one mom with a kid barely old enough to walk, and some old guy who’s reading the newspaper. It’s calm and soothing, and that much more of a confirmation that Bellamy made the right choice by going back.

They put away the cleaning supplies soon after and the place looks a little fresher. Miller’s behind the bar, dealing with the washing, and Bellamy takes up the dried things and starts putting them back in place. Miller’s whistling to the tune of whatever song is playing right now.

‘You know, I have to admit, I was surprised when I found out Pike hasn’t let you go once he heard I’m coming back.’

Miller tenses a little but doesn’t say anything. His hands are busy drying a mug and he doesn’t look up, almost as if he’s waiting for Bellamy to continue.

Which he does. ‘Pike is picky about the people who work here, and you probably know it. He likes to keep his company diverse but also loyal, so he’s not the type to employ people often. Gina’s the kind one, who always gives advice and makes everybody feel at home. Harper is just…people _like_ her. She’s like Gina, only younger and a little more carefree. Jasper’s a total nutter at times, but he’s hilarious and good-natured. Shaw is the kid who’s overqualified for this, but he’s doing his degree and wanted to help out, and he always puts everybody in their place if needed.’

There’s a bit of a silence. Miller’s posture doesn’t change, and Bellamy chooses to ignore the tension in the air. ‘And you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bellamy answers honestly. When Miller looks up he gives him a smile. ‘Never figured that one out. I think people like to talk to me about their troubles. Sort of male version of Gina, I guess, just not half as kind and twice as troubled as Jasper.’

‘You don’t strike me as the troubled kind.’

The grin on Bellamy’s face spreads a little wider. He winks at the kid, fresh out of high school, and knows Miller will understand. ‘We’ve all got some things we’ve swept under the rug. Look, I started this topic because I wanted to say that now I see why Pike kept you. People like you.’

Miller raises his eyebrows, the tension gone and the smallest smile replacing it. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. And you’re good at what you do. That’s enough for Pike, and it’s enough for the rest of us.’

‘Even you?’

‘What do you mean?’

Miller shrugs. The bell chimes as someone enters the Dropship, but Bellamy doesn’t bother looking as Miller nods in acknowledgment of the person. He looks back to Bellamy, lazily. ‘I don’t know. You strike me as the guy who’d want something a little more.’

‘I’m not picky.’ Bellamy laughs and pats his co-worker on the back. ‘Unless you’re too big of an asshole to fit in with us, you’re all right with me.’

Before Bellamy can see the smile spread all over the guy’s features—and it does, he doesn’t need to see it to know it—Miller looks away, chuckling to himself.

‘You know, they told me you’re a tough nut to crack.’

‘Of course they would. They pranked you.’

‘Yeah well, it worked. I’m glad you’re a little less…intimidating than I was told you’d be.’

‘Hey, kid, watch your mouth. I’m still intimidating, all right?’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

At this, Bellamy cracks up, not being able to keep it together anymore. He’s only a few years older than Miller and the kid must be that other bartender, Macallan’s age, but Bellamy feels much older than the two.

Miller leaves to tend to the customer and Bellamy finishes up his job. His thoughts wander, far from the Dropship, to a place they keep coming back to whenever he’s alone for more than a second. He sees her face in his bedroom, pale and beautiful, so fragile, so—

‘—amy. Hey, Bellamy!’

There’s a hand being waved in front of his face, one that very obviously belongs to Miller. Bellamy blinks a couple of times, enough to gain composure.

‘Yeah?’

‘She asked for you,’ Miller says, nodding in the direction where one person is sitting at a table. ‘Said you know her.’

Bellamy’s eyes fall on the girl turned to him with her back. His heart sinks to his stomach because he recognizes her instantly, and wishes he didn’t.

‘I do. Thanks.’

As he walks over to the table, he hopes Miller didn’t notice how dry his voice had become.

He stops. Looks at her.

Feels the bile coming up in her throat. He wished he would never need to see her again. Yet here she is, with enough dignity to look at him in shame and embarrassment.

 _At least she has enough shame to look like a rat that’s been stomped on_ , Bellamy thinks.

‘Your order?’ He keeps his voice neutral, as he would to someone he doesn’t give a single flying fuck about.

She hesitates. ‘Coffee, black. Please.’ Bellamy starts to walk away. ‘And—and forgiveness.’

He stops. Doesn’t look at her. He can’t.

Miller is looking at them despite trying to hide it and Bellamy is very aware of the dreadful tension their situation has placed upon the Dropship. Without saying anything, he goes to the bar and makes the coffee, grateful that Miller knows when not to ask any questions. He comes back with a coffee and a glass of whiskey, filled over twice the usual amount.

He drinks it straight, at once, and doesn’t even flinch.

What’s in front of him is worse than anything in that glass.

‘You know I can’t give it to you,’ he states. ‘The only person that could is dead.’

‘Bellamy—’

‘Lexa. Stop. I won’t have any of that bullshit.’

Bellamy looks at her, _really_ looks at her, and he’s half terrified of what he sees. Her hair is in a nice complex braid, the tattoos on each side of her neck peeking from underneath her leather jacket. She’s got her dark makeup on and if it were not for the slight quiver of her lip, he would never notice there’s something off. She looks as impeccable as always; cold as the stone that sits above Clarke’s grave.

He knows she won’t forgiveness and she knows he won’t give it to her. ‘Tell me why you’re really here.’

Lexa tilts her head and pushes her chin out, resting against the backseat. All is composed, all but the quiver of her lip. ‘She always thought so highly of you. That you’re kind, soft, _forgiving_ … Guess she didn’t see you for what you really are, like I could.’

‘And that is?’

‘A fucking asshole.’ She doesn’t hesitate. ‘I came here because I realized that what I’d done hurt her more than I could comprehend. I came because you’re the only person who I could—’

‘What you did is far worse than that, Lexa. You told her you loved her but you manipulated her into leaving the people _she_ loved, her job, her family. You made her believe that I was out to get her, that you’re the only one she can trust, you fucking ruined her. You’re the reason why she would wake up in tears, call me in dead hours of the morning because she feels like you’re back, choking her. You’re the monster of her nightmares. And if you even think for a _fucking_ second that I’ll give you forgiveness, you’re a fucking fool.’

‘Don’t you preach to me about being controlling, Blake.’

‘Say what you came here to say and get the fuck out of my bar.’

Lexa quirks an eyebrow. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘No.’ Bellamy leans back and crosses his arms, spreading his legs into a comfortable position underneath the table. She might be confident, but there’s nothing stopping him from treating her the way she deserves, and she knows it. This is his ground. Here, they play by his fucking rules. ‘I am just saying it the way it is.’

‘Fine.’ She finally takes a sip of the coffee. ‘I came here to apologize. Believe it or not, I have turned a new leaf, and I do understand what I did to Clarke was wrong. But I was right about you – you could never stand someone else having her because you wanted her all for yourself.’

‘Fuck you, Lexa.’

‘It’s true and you know it. You loved her, but so did I, and you could never accept it.’

‘It was never about me,’ he retorts. It was too loud – he sees Miller glancing at him, giving him the slight shake of his head. Bellamy nods, almost unnoticeably. He’s got this under control. When he looks back at Lexa, she’s indecipherable. ‘Don’t pretend your relationship failed because of me.’

‘It did and you know it. If you let her be her own person even for—’

‘She was her own person at all times. That was what you couldn’t stand.’

‘No, Blake. She was your fucking person and you fooled her into loving you—’

‘Get out.’

Bellamy stands up. His blood is boiling and he hears his heart thumping in his ears, temples, nose, lips, _everywhere_. His fingers are curled into fists and if Lexa keeps running her mouth for even one more second, he’ll lose his temper.

He’s a feral dog. Nobody wins against those.

‘I said,’ Bellamy says, ‘get. Out.’

She does. She slips out of the booth and her shoulder touches his in the passing, her being almost the same height as him in those high heels she’s wearing.

‘It’s you who killed her,’ she whispers. ‘If you hadn’t made her come home, she’d still be alive.’

Bellamy closes his eyes. His breath is shaky and where their shoulders are touching he’s burning, scorching, and his brain is melting because he’s seeing red.

‘If I ever see you again—’

Lexa scoffs. He feels her walk away. Her heels click and echo, and he wants to wash the sound away with bleach. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that.’

The bell chimes when she leaves. Bellamy opens his eyes.

He’s never felt this much hatred for anyone. Not even Finn, who fucking _cheated_ on Clarke and caused her to have trust issues, to think that no one could truly love her and only her. Then Lexa came, and Lexa loved Clarke more than anything else, until it became obvious that she couldn’t stand Clarke loving anything or anyone else, at all. Until she ripped Clarke to pieces, bit by bit, taking each as a trophy until Clarke came to Bellamy’s flat in tears because she realized she doesn’t know who she is anymore.

He remembers it. It’s fucking etched into his brain.

He’ll never forgive Lexa.

He sees her, falling into his arms as soon as he opens the door, when he hasn’t seen her in almost two months. She’s lighter and thinner and paler, and holding onto him as if he’s the anchor keeping her from losing her mind.

He hears her breathing his name, crying it, over and over again as he takes her to his bed and pulls her to his chest under the covers, feeling her shake and cry and mourn whatever of her ghost is left to mourn.

 _I can’t keep going on like this_ , she manages to whisper between sobs. Her voice is hoarse and barely there and he struggles to hear it, but he understands. _She’s – she doesn’t want to let me go._

Clarke cries, again. He kisses the top of her head and rubs her back, soothingly, until she falls asleep. In the morning he finds out Lexa’s been keeping her from seeing him and her other friends, changing her eating habits, her routine, everything.

 _I love her_ , Clarke says in the morning. It’s heavy and Bellamy hates those three words in the moment. _And I know she loves me, too._

He recalls himself saying that _It’s possible to love someone too much. So much that your love becomes a cage that’s killing them. That’s not the kind of love anyone deserves._

She looks at him with blotchy face and bloodshot eyes, and he sees her cheekbones and the hollowness underneath them and the self-hatred etched onto all of her features, and pulls her into a hug again.

 _You’re worth so much more_ , he tells her. _You’re worth someone who loves you without wanting to change you. Without limiting you. Someone who actually, genuinely_ loves _you._

He doesn’t admit it then, or ever, but Clarke listens. She goes into the place they got together and takes her things into Monty and Jasper’s van, and they move her into Bellamy’s house, with Octavia helping out, too. She breaks it off with Lexa over the phone because seeing her would be too dangerous, and Bellamy holds her hand as she does so.

She cries, for days on end. _You made the right choice_ , he keeps telling her, over and over again, no matter how many times she needs to hear it.

The last time he says that, Clarke shakes her head against his chest, wipes her tears and looks at him in determination. _It was the only choice._

But she never recovered. She was getting somewhere, but healing from a relationship like that took time, and Bellamy loved her every part of the journey. To think that she never got to the end of it, that Lexa asked for forgiveness for ruining Clarke’s life and tried blaming it on him, it drives him insane.

Insane enough to be desperate to see Clarke again.

When closing time comes, it’s Miller’s turn to close, but Bellamy waves him off. ‘I’ll close up, you go home and get some rest.’

The new guy doesn’t protest, and Bellamy doubts it’s because he’s just thankful he gets to go home early. Miller leaves within the next ten minutes, as does the last guest, and Bellamy turns all the lights off but one, and pours himself a glass of whiskey.

And then another one. And another one. And another one.

However many glasses it takes until a blond-haired figure walks through the door, and he finally doesn’t feel so lost anymore.


	7. ten weeks after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I’d like to propose a toast to a friend who is no longer with us,’ he says, and Bellamy’s eyes go dark. ‘If it weren’t for Clarke, I wouldn’t have met any of you, and I wouldn’t be here tonight. To Clarke.’
> 
> ‘To Clarke,’ the group echoes.
> 
> Bellamy doesn’t say anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long! hopefully the next chapter is out on the actual wednesday for once.

Bellamy doesn’t really recall his friends ever establishing that Christmas eve is at the McIntyre house. They’ve been friends for years, almost all of them, with new additions sprouting each year and making their found family even bigger. The first time Bellamy stepped into the house was five years ago, when his mother ended up in the hospital and the McIntyres were more than happy to have him and Octavia over. Still, the most memorable time was three years ago – when it was just Harper, Monty, Jasper, him, Octavia and Clarke, whose mother had to stay working for the night, as they needed as many available doctors as possible.

He recalls having a hand on Clarke’s back as he walked around the car, just to offer her any comfort he can. His mouth opens as he is looking for something to say, anything, but nothing comes out.

Clarke is staring at the ground, her hands warming up her upper arms. Behind them, Octavia seems to be the only one truly excited to be here. _Come on, guys_ , she tells them. _They have a fireplace._

_Go ahead, O_ , Bellamy says. _We’ll be right behind you._

He still vividly remembers the look she gave him – one that asks him if he’s shitting her. He gives her a small shake of head and she whips her hair around, swift as always with her chin held high, and does as she was told.

The breeze is cold and it still sends shivers down Bellamy’s spine as he remembers the moment. That was one of the sharpest winters and Christmas eve was one of the sharpest nights, too. It’s etched in his mind, the way he stands so the wind blows into him and passes Clarke; the way his hand rests in between her shoulder blades until it travels, slowly, to her shoulder and he pulls her into himself.

She doesn’t protest. Her cheek rests against his chest, head lowered a little for comfort. Bellamy’s arms wrap themselves around her and hers remain on his chest, close to her face. He doesn’t see her, but he feels her, and somehow that helps him understand her even more.

Bellamy rests his chin on top of her head. He can still feel how cold her hair is, but how much it smells like chocolate and how much it reminds him of home. His eyelids flutter before he looks to the house, that looks more welcoming than ever. There is soft yellow light coming through the curtains and he can see silhouettes of either Harper or Octavia walking around the living room.

One of his hands finds the ends of her hair and he tugs on them, just a little bit. _The first time is the hardest. It gets easier._

He doesn’t say that next time, she will be with Abby instead. Neither of them really believe that is the case.

Clarke is quiet. She didn’t use to be, not before losing her dad, but Bellamy understands how losing someone you rely on can change everything you thought you knew about yourself.

Hell, that’s the only then he’s been able to understand since she has been gone.

_Does it ever stop feeling bad?_

He feels a tear down the small patch of skin above his collar and he bites his lips. _No_ , he admits. _You always remember why you’re here. But it gets better. It starts feeling like home, more each time. You think less about the bad and more about what you have._

He hears her sniffle. His hand moves from her ends to the back of her head, cradling it softly. _It does get better, Clarke. These people are your friends. If you’re going to get better anywhere, it’s with us._

She doesn’t say anything.

_If you want to leave, we will._ He realizes it later, that he doesn’t say ‘I will leave with you’ – he doesn’t give her a choice. For him, there’s never a choice. If Clarke isn’t enjoying herself, if being around people who love her doesn’t help, then he needs to do as much as he can.

_Okay_ , she says softly, into his chest. _Okay._

She cheers up, eventually, and Bellamy relishes in the smile on her face. It’s one of the best Christmases he can remember.

Now, it’s all he can think about. The driver’s seat of his car feels stiff and unfamiliar, and the steering wheel too rubbery and too thick, and his fingers don’t seem to know how to hold it anymore. Even him just sitting in the parking lot of his apartment complex, staring at the yellow street lights with a clear night sky above it, he feels faint. He feels out of breath. His body responds in the same way as it did when he and Clarke tried running a marathon and failed because they just couldn’t do it.

_That’s the case_ , Bellamy thinks. _I just can’t do it. I just—_

He punches the steering wheel. It honks, accidentally, and he punches it again because that pisses him off. And again, and again, and again, until he’s afraid someone will come looking for him.

Then, he just puts his arms on it, and lets his head fall on them.

_Weakling._

_A fucking excuse of a human being._

_Pathetic._

He grips onto it and pushes his body so far into the back of the seat that his neck begins to strain. His knuckles go white. His blood boils, too, and the ringing in his ears won’t stop. He feels the pressure rising, the heat increasing, and he feels that he _can’t fucking breathe._

So he opens the window. It’s cold outside.

‘C’mon,’ Bellamy tells himself. ‘Get a fucking grip.’

He puts the radio on and it starts playing one of those cheesy Christmas songs about arriving home. _My home is dead_ —he increases the volume, until he can’t hear his thoughts. Until his pulse slows to the beat of the song, until his blood runs cold, until he loses all sense in his fingers.

That’s when he turns down the volume and calls Octavia.

‘ _Bell!’_ she answers. _‘We’re waiting for you, everybody else has arrived already.’_

‘Yeah, I’m on my way. I’ll take about half an hour, is that all right with Gina and Harper?’

_‘Of course. Is everything okay? Are you driving?’_

‘Well, the engine is turned on,’ he admits.

_‘Bellamy…’_

‘Hey, O? Just stay on the line, okay?’ He grips the steering wheel again and tells himself he can do it. He’s done it a million times. Press the pedal, steer the wheel, change the speed and that’s it. Simple as that.

Bellamy revs the car, and backs out of the parking lot.

He’s sweating.

_‘Yeah, of course,’_ Octavia replies. _‘I’ll leave you on the line but I just need to go help Harper set the table, if that’s okay.’_

‘That’s fine.’ He’s out of the parking lot. Every second feels like he’s driving on ice, not a clear road. ‘Just… put me on speaker so I can hear what’s happening there.’

He drives under a light. There’s another car on the road and Bellamy’s blood freezes, but it only drives by. Nothing happens. Nothing ever does. He doesn’t think about the drive, because he knows he’s good enough to not need to think about it; he thinks about the McIntyre house. He thinks about Harper and Gina cooking because one person is not enough. He knows Raven wants to help but she’s not good with cooking, but Murphy is and he always stumbles into the kitchen and helps make the food even better, then denies it ever happened. He knows Monty and Jasper are bringing out their moonshine that is way more alcoholic than a Christmas dinner requires. He knows Emori is bringing her friend Echo this year, and Jasper is finally bringing his girlfriend Maya.

Bellamy finds it a little weird. Some of these people come to the dinner because they celebrate Christmas in the morning or live far away from their families, but the most of them don’t even have families to go back to. His, Murphy’s and Raven’s are dead, for some of the others he knows they aren’t in speaking terms with theirs, but there are some he has no idea why they’re here. They don’t really talk about that kind of stuff.

He just knows, if you don’t have a place to spend Christmas, the McIntyre house is a safe haven.

Bellamy comes to a crossing that marks the end of his neighbourhood. So far, he is doing fine. His breathing is still a little off and his heart is racing, fingers stiff on the wheel, feet a little sensitive at the soles, but he’s managing. Road by road, he’ll get there eventually.

He listens to his friends on the other side. Some of them say hi, or yell obscene stuff that doesn’t even surprise him, but they bring a smile to his face. He hears Murphy and Raven having a go at each other and he hears Monty and Jasper explaining to the new visitors how to gamble on that friendship throughout the night.

It’s all so recognizable, so familiar, so—

‘ _Hey, Bell! I’m back.’_ Octavia says. She sounds a little out of breath. _‘How’s driving?’_

‘It’s good. I’m managing.’ He bites his lip and watches another car drive by, and he closes his eyes for a second to rid of the whites shining in his eyes. _Was this the last thing Clarke saw? Blinding white lights?_ ‘I just didn’t want to be alone.’

_‘Oh.’_ He can tell she’s trying to work out the meaning of his words, and it sounds like she’s about to ask about it, until he hears a sharp inhale and— _‘You haven’t driven since Clarke’s accident.’_

It’s not even a question. ‘I haven’t. Just stay on the line, and I’ll be fine.’

_‘Are you sure? Bellamy, one of us could’ve—’_

‘It’s been two months, Octavia. More than that.’ _Seventy-three days._ ‘I needed this.’

She’s quiet for a moment. _‘Yeah.’_

‘Yeah,’ he echoes.

_‘Well, if you were wanting to know, Harper and I were talking and…’_

Bellamy lets Octavia’s voice become background music for his brain, the one loud enough to silence his thoughts. It doesn’t matter what she’s saying and they both know it, so Bellamy just listens. Lets himself be consumed by the familiarity of his sister’s voice, the one thing he can still count on.

He might just get through this.

The on the McIntyre’s doors rings a short fifteen minutes later, and Murphy opens them to see Bellamy standing there with a handful of presents for everybody.

‘Hey, Murphy.’

At the sight of the presents, his friend’s face stretches into a grin and he takes a step back to let Bellamy in, but also to turn towards the living room and shout, ‘Everybody, Santa’s here!’

Bellamy laughs. ‘Fuck off, Murphy.’

It feels nice to see his friends again. It’s been a long time since he participated in a group outing with all of them there, and he realizes how much he misses their presence. Still, it’s a lot of them, and it’s a lot for Bellamy. He finds himself saying hi to everybody, but really talking to only a few of them. Mostly Raven, Murphy, and Octavia, if she isn’t busy helping out in the kitchen. He’s introduced to Echo and Maya, both of whom seem like lovely girls – Maya a little more so than Echo. He’s slightly intimidated by the tall brunette. The new additions this year are Shaw and Lincoln, both of whom Bellamy’s known for years as external parts of their group (and Shaw as Raven’s occasional fling).

The question on burning at the tip of everyone’s tongues is how he’s doing, but he’s glad they never ask it in a way that seems more than just small talk, just friends catching up.

He’s doing good, anyway. Better.

By the time dinner rolls around, Bellamy isn’t thinking about it. It seems that everybody is in a cheery mood and he couldn’t not have it rub off on him even if he wanted. For once, Bellamy finds it easy to laugh.

It’s a nice change.

On the seat next to him, Murphy nods in his direction, discreetly enough nobody but Bellamy notices. His hair is tousled and he looks a little tired and weary, but Murphy always does, even when the look comes with a smile that’s not even a smirk. If anything, Murphy’s eyes are betraying him, the way they crinkle in the corners with his tilted.

‘You look better,’ he says. His voice is low and discreet, not drawing any attention from the loud conversations other guests are having. ‘I’m glad.’

Bellamy smiles and finds himself a little surprised that not a bit of it was forced. ‘Thanks.’

‘I heard you were being a real cranky boss to Miller.’

‘Is that what he said?’

‘Eh, maybe.’ But his smile becomes a grin and Bellamy throws a paper towel at him. ‘Hey! Don’t act like a kid.’

‘You’re the one talking shit!’

‘You’re the one bossing around!’

‘Well, that’s because you’re trying—’

‘Guys,’ comes Harper’s voice. It’s surprising enough for the two boys to turn their heads into her direction, and be met with a stern look turned into a smile. ‘I’m glad you’re seven years old again, but it’s dinner time.’

Jasper chuckles. ‘Okay, _mom_.’

‘I’ll fling you out of the window,’ says Monty, and the ruckus goes back to the way it was. Bellamy gets a pat on the back form Murphy and Harper and Octavia have a hard time trying to silence everybody, until Raven gets up and stomps on the floor with her brace, loud enough for everybody to shut up.

She smiles. ‘Bon appetit, bitches.’

And this is where things go downhill. People start eating and everything seems perfectly fine, but Bellamy’s mind is buzzing with the memories of this being Clarke’s job – she’s the one who gets on a chair and says those words. It’s Clarke, not Raven, and Clarke was the one who made it a tradition and Raven doing it feels almost as if she’s stealing what Clarke—

Monty calling his name across the table brings his attention out of his brain.

‘Sorry,’ he forces out, ‘I was just lost in thought for a bit there.’

Bellamy musters a smile and tries to ignore the fact that his acting has made nearly everyone at the table shut up. He takes a fork and stabs through one of the potato wedges through it, dipping it into Harper’s homemade dip and taking the first bite.

He’s still smiling. ‘Harper, this dip is absolutely amazing.’

‘Thanks, Bellamy.’ She says that with a smile on her face that mirrors his. _Are you sure you’re okay?_ he can almost hear her say.

Once everybody starts eating and talking and nobody really pays him any more attention than they usually would, Bellamy slips into casual, comfortable conversations with his friends. It feels almost like these things never begin or end – he’s with his friends right now, as he always has been, and always will be. He’s safe here.

Nothing bad can hurt him here.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, unease starts taking root.

By the end of the three course meal, Bellamy feels a little lighter, a little happier. There is some alcohol in his blood but hardly enough to do anything, as his alcohol tolerance has skyrocketed in the past few weeks. He sees his friends getting tipsy and some even drunk (Harper and Jasper have never been good with drinking), and he sees Octavia talking to Lincoln, who is sitting right next to her, two seats from Bellamy.

He’s a little hazy, a little out of it, and his mind keeps going back to a certain blonde but he doesn’t really let it go there. He doesn’t want to think about it.

There is guilt taking root, too, and regret, and so many bad emotions that Bellamy can almost feel cold sweat on the back of his neck, tingles in the palms of his hands.

Lincoln is the one to speak up. He raises his glass filled with red wine, and Bellamy almost doesn’t notice the glow in Octavia’s eyes when she looks at him. He makes a mental note to ask her about that later, when they can get some private space.

‘I’d like to propose a toast to a friend who is no longer with us,’ he says, and Bellamy’s eyes go dark. ‘If it weren’t for Clarke, I wouldn’t have met any of you, and I wouldn’t be here tonight. To Clarke.’

‘To Clarke,’ the group echoes.

Bellamy doesn’t say anything.

‘She’d always get so drunk during Christmas dinners,’ says Harper, with affection in her voice. It’s soft and genuine, and there’s a longing in it. ‘She was so loud and we loved it. She never looked the type, but she was a real party girl.’

‘True,’ agrees Murphy. ‘I remember there was this one time when she had way too much of the boys’ moonshine and ended up in a cabriolet like in that scene from _Perks of Being a Wallflower_.’

Some people laugh, some just chuckle. ‘I remember that one,’ says Raven. Bellamy can hear the smile in her voice. ‘It was Bellamy driving, right?’

There is silence, for a couple of moments, until Bellamy realizes that was supposed to be his cue. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘that was a good time.’

Nobody says anything. It’s quiet, dreadfully, until Murphy laughs and says, ‘Funny, usually it would be Clarke who’s the serious one out of you two.’

Bellamy opens his mouth to retort, but Jasper is quicker. ‘Yes! Do you guys remember the first time we saw her drunk? It was Bellamy who stayed sober so he could drive her home, and she was absolutely Clarke.’

‘She went from a mom to a rebellious teen,’ Harper adds.

And they go on. On and on and on and on about how amazing Clarke was, how drunk she’d get, how dumb were the things she’d say sometimes, and how she’d sometimes be bossy, and thoughts are just building up in the back of Bellamy’s mind until he just—

‘I need some fresh air.’

He gets out of his seat before anyone can even attempt at asking a question. He doesn’t think until he’s outside, wearing his coat, and freezing.

In fact, Bellamy doesn’t think at all. He just counts the seconds that turn into minutes, and he counts the snowflakes that start falling from the dark sky, and he counts the steps it takes form each of his friends’ cars to the porch. He counts the cars on the street and the windows and the lights and he just sees the numbers in red and white and yellow and just… He can’t think. If he thinks, he’ll think about her, and he’ll think about what happened, and there’ll be no going back.

So, Bellamy just stands there, on the porch of Harper’s house, and doesn’t think.

Raven comes looking after him once it’s been a while. He hears the door opening and closing, and makes a bet with himself on whether it’s going to be Octavia, Murphy, Raven, Monty, or Harper. He was kind of rooting for Murphy – he sure seemed to have a lot on his mind about Bellamy earlier, a lot that he hasn’t yet said.

And Raven, as per usual, gets straight to the point. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Beats me, honestly.’

She comes to stand right next to him and he can almost feel the heat from her body reaching him. She smells like her metal and mechanic oils, but she always manages to make it smell feminine, as if it’s a perfume that she wears. Nothing about Raven is harsh until she wants it to be.

Now, he can feel the harshness oozing off of her. Is she judging him? Is she pissed off that he’s acting this way? Is she just generally dissatisfied with the way he’s been acting for the past few weeks? Any of those could be answered with a yes, or even all of them.

Bellamy can’t read minds. Least of all, he can’t read Raven’s.

Her hands are stuffed into her pockets and she brings out a cigarette out of one of them, a lighter out of the other. When she brings the white stick to her lips and lights it, breathing it in, Bellamy stares. He stares when she lets her eyelids flutter for a heartbeat or two, before she lets out the cloud of smoke with a sigh of relief.

She looks at him, a straight face on, and Bellamy can understand there’s a bond being created between them that they didn’t have before; that he hasn’t had with anyone before.

‘We all have our vices,’ she mutters. ‘You took up alcohol. I took up cigarettes. Murphy’s gambling a little too much.’

‘I’m not an alcoholic.’

‘And I’m not addicted to cigarettes. Honestly, maybe Murphy’s got the better end of the deal, because he has Emori to keep him in check.’ She laughs, and it’s the same coarse laugh he’s heard a million times – but from Murphy, not her. ‘You and I have no one to turn to.’

‘Shaw?’

‘It’s not serious. Not enough for that, anyway.’ She stares off into the distance and Bellamy wonders when she started smoking, and lost the optimism she’d always grace them with. When it was that she gave up, in a way. ‘Nobody wants to hear about how you’re mourning one of your best friend when you’re just fucking.’

The way she says it breaks his heart. It’s soft, vulnerable, and honest, and she’s admitting things that hurt to admit. Knowing that you’re on your own in your grief with the people around you simply not understand what you’re going through, it’s difficult. Painful, even, when things go bad and you’re on your own.

They stay like that, for a while. Bellamy isn’t bothered about her presence, surprisingly. She’s got her back supported by the wall of the house and is staring at the moon as she blows smoke after smoke, until the cigarette burns for the last time. She flicks what’s remaining off the porch, into the path made out of stones and pebbles.

‘Why did you leave?’

He looks away, into the night sky. ‘I couldn’t stand the way you were talking about her. Any of you.’

‘What was so wrong about it?’

‘It was disrespectful. She’s dead, and you’re all talking about how shit drunk she would get.’ Inside his pocket, his nails rub against the fabric, tearing it string by string. ‘All that stuff you said. It wasn’t right.’

Bellamy doesn’t see it, but she hears Raven’s footsteps on the wooden porch. He feels her warmth when she comes stand right next to him, mere inches between them.

‘We were reminiscing, Bellamy. We were talking about the way she was because we miss her.’

‘Beats me,’ he says, and knows she hates it.

‘You have no right—’

‘No, Raven, do not fucking tell me what I have and don’t have the right to do. Clarke’s dead. She’s fucking _dead_. And you talk about her like she’s some sort of a fucking weirdo we’d make fun of at the parties. It’s rude, it’s disrespectful, and it’s absolutely downright path—’

‘Shut up. For one fucking second. Just _shut_ up.’ Raven’s face, when he finally turns his head to look at her, is distorted in fury. ‘Get your head out of your ass, Blake. You’re grieving, but you’re not the only one. We know Clarke’s dead, thank you very much. We miss her too. We just deal with it in a different way.’

A coarse laugh passes Bellamy’s lips and he throws his head back, shaking it slightly. ‘You’re not fucking dealing with it.’

‘How would you know?’ Raven’s voice is cold, and the next words are a bullet. ‘You haven’t cared enough to ask us how we feel.’

His jaw clenches and the fingers in his pocket tear through the fabric. He closes his eyes and his lashes flutter, and the muscles in his neck are strained to the point it hurts.

‘Where were you when I was killing myself?’ he asks, quietly.

Raven’s reply comes immediately. ‘Looking for you.’

Bellamy stays quiet.

‘You didn’t tell anyone where your new apartment was and we went through hell trying to find it. You isolated yourself. You were ruining yourself and you didn’t want help.’

‘Maybe you should’ve left me alone, then.’

‘Is that what you really think?’

‘Yes.’

Raven chuckles. It sounds like a slap on his face, and something in him hurts as if it did happen. ‘You’d leave Octavia behind? Really? Just because you’re grieving? Don’t even answer that because we both know that you were selfish. Do you think we didn’t want to check up on you, both for your own sake but for ours as well? Murphy and I, especially? I remember telling Murphy off for saying one of his friends is dead and he can’t lose another because of it, but he was fucking _right_ , Bellamy. You might say you didn’t need us, but you did, and we needed you just as much, if not more.’

Bellamy’s eyes drop to his feet. The edge of his vision is a little dark and he feels pressure rising inside his ears, complete with the deep, earthly thudding. He feels his pulse rising and he feels the cold not bothering him as much anymore.

Most of all, Bellamy feels something that hurts his pride.

But Raven’s not done yet.

‘You were selfish, you were grieving, so we gave it to you. We didn’t talk to you about her because you didn’t want to talk about her. We did. We missed her so fucking much. You were absorbed in your hurt and your pain and made sure everyone knew that. You locked yourself away for weeks. Murphy and I were _drained_ , and so was Octavia, and none of us had any idea what’s going on with you, worrying, while you were drinking yourself to death. For all we knew, it would’ve been possible that you _had_ done that, Bellamy. How do you mourn your friend when another is on the edge of killing himself?’

Bile rises in his throat. He swallows it back down.

Raven’s hand comes up, close to his arm, but she pulls it away. He can’t look at her. He can’t.

‘Clarke’s not the only person who cared about you,’ she says, softly. ‘It just feels like she’s the only person _you_ cared about.’

He feels the stinging in his eyes. Raven’s words are punching at his heart, the way he knows the Raven from before would pound on his chest. He can hear the resignation in her voice – he understands that she’s simply accepted the new Bellamy.

And it hurts. It fucking hurts.

When did they become _this_? Two people who used to laugh and tease and not be serious for longer than a minute, and they’re falling apart. She’s a smoker and he’s an alcoholic, and their only other closest friend left is well on his way to becoming a gambler. They’re drowning their sorrows in their vices instead of just talking about it, and Bellamy thinks of fucked up it is.

‘I wasn’t strong enough,’ he says, just as softly as she did. There is no fight left in him. ‘I was falling apart. I was embarrassed.’

This time, Raven’s hand touches his arm and stays there. She squeezes it lightly, rubbing her thumb over the coat. ‘None of us were strong enough.’

Raven rests her head against his shoulder and he wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. When she says she’s sorry, sniffs and rubs her nose with the back of her sleeve, Bellamy wonders at what point she started crying. He wonders when he started, too.

His phone rings. It’s an old Frank Sinatra song, one that he and Clarke used to love so much. Abby’s name flashes on the screen. He turns the sound off and puts the phone back into his pocket, as if nothing had ever happened.

‘ _The Way You Look Tonight,_ huh?’ Raven asks.

All he offers in agreement is a vague hum, deep in his throat.

‘I miss her,’ she says. It’s so quiet he isn’t sure if she’s saying it at all. ‘Every single day. So many things remind me of her, I just… The other day, I was cooking and some tomato sauce ended up on the counter, and I remembered how she dyed that one streak in her hair red for almost two years. I’d be watching something and laugh, and then something would feel like it’s missing. I’d be doing my laundry and I’d realize that all of these things are just mine. All the clothes I wear are just mine. Her name doesn’t flash on my phone screen anymore. I don’t get messages on Instagram of memes she sends me. It’s the small things that are the worst.’

White, fragile snowflakes begin falling from the skies. He didn’t even notice when it got cloudy, or when the wind got harsher.

‘Some days it’s okay,’ Raven admits. ‘Some days I miss her less than others. But then I’m doing something, absolutely unrelated, and I suddenly remember and it all comes crashing down.’

Bellamy understands. His arm travels to her shoulder and he squeezes her closer, until they’re in a comfortable side hug.

‘I talk to her,’ he says, ‘when I get drunk. It feels almost as if she never left. And she feels so real, but I know she isn’t here. I know it’s not real. But I still do it, over and over again, just so I could see her, talk to her again.’

Raven sobs quietly, next to him. His face is freezing and the wind is cruel, and he realizes it’s because his whole face is covered in tears.

‘I don’t want to be without her. Ever again. I don’t know who I am without—without _Clarke_.’ Bellamy’s voice breaks at the sound of her name, and Raven just squeezes his hand because finally, someone understands.

For the first time in ten weeks, Bellamy knows he’s not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanted to talk about this chapter a bit. it's one of my favourites of the story, and it really is a turning point for bellamy. in the original draft, the chapter ends with bellamy realizing he's still alone, but i prefer this so much more. my boy deserves someone to share his burden. 
> 
> in the plans for the chapter, there was a lot more to his and raven's situation, they talked about octavia and lincoln, and bellamy answered abby's call, and people mentioned his well-being a lot more, but it would've been way too long. it's still longer than usual, but i really hope you enjoyed it as much as i enjoyed writing it.


	8. eleven weeks after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loved her because she was _trying_.
> 
> He still loves her.
> 
> He just can’t accept that the Clarke at his side is anything like his Clarke.
> 
> Then Bellamy answers a phone call, from Murphy. And everything shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently saturdays are new wednesdays. oops
> 
> (heavily unedited. heavily written in three writing sprees while tearing my hair out wishing i was drunk)

Bellamy’s fingers clasp around a glass of beer, as firm as they get at eleven at night. ‘Thanks.’

‘It’s on the house,’ the boy behind the counter states. He’s leaning against the wood, smiling at Bellamy as if they’re sharing an inside joke. ‘You made me think, last time you were here.’

‘Did I? I thought I was just rambling.’

Macallan laughs. ‘Kind of. You told me to make sure that people I care about know how much they mean to me, that I never know when I might lose them.’

‘Oh. Yeah. I remember that.’

The slight buzz of the alcohol is already getting to him, and Bellamy feels the warmth in his chest. It’s a familiar tinge, one soothing in a way only alcohol can be. He supports himself against the counter, one hand firm on it as he keeps himself steady. The alcohol mutes the noise, too, and somehow all the chatter becomes a distant, white noise that is almost pleasant to be a part of. All these people, each living a different life, none of them whatsoever related to Bellamy’s – he remembers when feeling like this was the only thing keeping him afloat.

Now, he has a newfound appreciation for the buoyant bars and the life they carry.

He’s come a long way.

‘Did it help?’ he asks.

Macallan grins, wide, and shrugs. ‘Drunken words of wisdom always do.’

In celebration, Bellamy raises his beer. A lazy smile stretches across his face, mirroring the one on the bartender’s, and Bellamy feels as if he’s made a friend.

‘You know, I’m a bartender, too,’ he admits. He sits down on one of the stools and places his beer on the counter, and thinks, _she’ll wait for me_. ‘I know drunk people talk a lot of bullshit. But there’s always something in it, isn’t there? It’s almost as if when you’re drunk enough to not remember, then you unlock one or two secrets of the universe.’

Macallan laughs and Bellamy laughs with him. It feels natural; it feels as if Macallan knows him in a way different than friends do.

‘That might be the case and we’ll never know.’

‘Well,’ Bellamy says, ‘one thing we bartenders do know is that drunk people are drunk because their lives are fucked up.’

‘Eh, I wouldn’t know. You seemed like you had your life pretty figured out.’

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. His fingers are tapping on the glass that’s a quarter emptier already, and the taps are in rhythm with a generic pop song playing on the speakers. It’s more of a feeling than a sound, really, and it might be the alcohol, but the bass reaches the pits of Bellamy’s stomach.

Macallan gets helps himself to a glass of water and downs it, waving down a group of people who have just walked in.

‘You know what made you miserable. Most of them just think their lives are shit all around, but it felt like you knew what it is that made your life shit in the moment.’ Macallan pasues, for a dramatic second, and smiles when Bellamy sighs. ‘It seems a little less shit now.’

Bellamy looks to the back of the bar, where a pretty blonde is sitting, and thinks, _yeah – it’s been worse._

When he turns back around, Macallan is tending to one of the other guests. He’s grinning at them, widely, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair as he does so. Bellamy can tell chatting to customers comes as second nature to him, and he understands why people like to tell him some of the serious stuff, too. It’s not common that a bartender makes you feel like they genuinely care about your problems.

That’s what they say Bellamy does for people, anyway. Or used to – before something in him hardened and he can’t find it in himself anymore to listen to other people’s sob stories and make them seem like the morning is gonna be brighter.

The truth is, in the morning, the brightness is going to be what’s killing them.

Right as he’s about to turn around and go back to his table, his bartender is back with the same smile Bellamy saw him wear for the other customers. A part of him wonders how much of it is genuine, but an even bigger part of him would rather not know.

‘You’re of drinking age, right?’ asks Bellamy.

Macallan nods. ‘Turned twenty-one three months ago.’

_Jesus, he’s only three years younger than me._ Bellamy blinks twice, quickly, and tries to ignore how much older he feels than Macallan. A whole decade, if not more – sometimes it’s difficult to even think that Clarke’s death was years ago, not less than three months. Sometimes going through everything he has in those months makes him feel like he’ll never be young again.

‘Get yourself a drink,’ he says. ‘It’s on me.’

‘Hey, I can’t—’

A knowing grin spreads across Bellamy’s face. ‘Don’t give me that bullshit about not drinking on the job. Nobody’s going to check you and it’s not like one drink is going to matter, anyway.’

For a moment, Macallan’s mouth hangs open, then they just stretch into a smile. ‘Bartenders, huh?’

‘Bartenders.’

‘Thanks…?’

‘Bellamy,’ he says. ‘And I’m twenty-four, so if you even think about calling me sir, I will—I don’t know, something.’

Macallan laughs, and Bellamy thinks he could get used to that sound.

‘Okay, but only if you let me fill up the rest of your glass.’

He’s about to ask why, when he’s already been given the beer on the house, but bites his tongue. Instead, Bellamy spreads his arms and grins. ‘What are you waiting for?’

He might be a little more drunk than he initially thought, considering once he’s got the newly-filled glass of beer and on the move, and the room doesn’t seem to cooperate with his sense of balance. People stare at him as he moves, or so he thinks. It wouldn’t be the first time alcohol has made him paranoid, and it wouldn’t be the first time the cause of it is a pretty blonde he’s about to come back to.

Bellamy slides into the seat next to her with ease, years’ worth of practice. She gives him a sheepish smile, head tilted knowingly to the side, as her straightened hair cascades off her shoulder.

‘You’ve been there for too long to come back with a full glass,’ remarks Clarke.

‘Had it refilled. The bartender likes me.’

‘Hm.’ Clarke’s smile transforms into a smug grin, and he recognizes the teasing in the crinkles of her eyes. ‘Finally, some surprise.’

‘You know me too well.’

Clarke clicks her tongue and juts her chin out, winking at him. Winking – it’s one of the things that he calls her “tells”, ways of knowing it’s not really her. Before the accident, Clarke would almost never wink. If she did, it would carry great meaning, and it would almost be a puzzle to decipher. This Clarke, on the other hand, winks on a daily basis. Her laugh is more open, airy, more from the lungs than the throat. Her smile is more open, too, and the crinkles she gets when she smiles seem a little more pronounced. The movements of her body are smoother and less guarded, and she takes up all the space there is to take.

There are many tells. There are many times Bellamy looks at her, and wonders if she ever truly was like this. But the biggest tell is the one Bellamy can never ignore, pretend it isn’t here; it’s the tell that is preventing him from truly believing into this fallacy.

Few months ago, after the breakup with Lexa, Clarke got bad. She was always kind of on the serious side, but she was carefree when she was around people who made her relaxed. Now…Bellamy looks at the Clarke beside him, and realizes just how much she is unlike the actual girl.

When Clarke gets bad, it’s only days after the breakup. She’s still at Bellamy’s house and Octavia is just finishing up her last weeks of school, so it’s just the two of them.

He comes home from an early shift before the clock strikes three, and the sun is shielded by an odd cloud. It’s humid, Bellamy recalls, and he wishes for the umpteenth time they could’ve invested in an air conditioner. But just one more summer, and he’ll be out of here.

He doesn’t expect to walk in to his living room only to find Clarke with her hair cut to her chin with red, patchy streaks in it.

Bellamy nearly drops the grocery bags. _Clarke? What—_

_I did it myself_ , she blurts out. She is looking at him with her eyes a little out of focus, and Bellamy’s eyes scan the area for booze or cigarettes, but he doesn’t find anything. _Lexa came by while you were away._

_What did she do?_

Bellamy places the bags on the ground, gently, so the eggs don’t break. He walks over to the couch Clarke has stood up from and sits down; Clarke follows suit. She looks at him, then away, then shakes her head to himself, and Bellamy thinks that she looks like a fucking mess.

It breaks his heart.

_She just wanted to talk. Said she misses me._

His arm finds a way to her shoulder, and he pulls her into his chest. His hands reach the ends of her hair and the red streaks are still sticky, and the colour rests on his fingers, too.

_If you want to go back to her—_

_I don’t, Bellamy, I’m not—_ except she doesn’t say what she isn’t. He hears her breathe in, deeply, and she breaks out of his arms, her hands still on his chest. Her face is blotchy and her lips quivering. _I told her to never talk to me again._

_Good. She doesn’t deserve anything else._

_I dyed my hair,_ she says, and smiles a little. _Cut it, too._

_I can tell._

_How does it look?_

He takes her in. Her face, apart from being blotchy because of her dishevelled emotional state, is red from the dye. There are smears on her cheeks, on her forehead, on her chin, even on one of her brow bones. Without thinking, Bellamy reaches and wipes the last one off, slowly getting to the rest of them with a tissue he grabs out of his pocket.

_It suits you_ , he says, honestly. _It’s patchy and kind of punk rock, and the cuts aren’t even, but it doesn’t look bad._

_It doesn’t look like a mess?_

Bellamy smiles and wipes the last traces of colour. _It does, but it looks like a hot mess._

It brings a laugh out of her. Later that day, they go to Harper to fix it, as she occasionally helps out at her cousin’s hair salon. She brings Clarke’s hair to an even length and tones down some of the red, until there are only a few strands that are a soft red.

And that, Bellamy thinks, is the Clarke that he’s last seen. Short hair, now reaching almost to her shoulders, and one singular red streak in her hair.

‘Everything okay?’ she asks, fingertips gliding alongside the rim of his glass. ‘You look a bit lost in thought.’

‘Can’t you read my mind?’ Bellamy counters, only partly as a joke.

Clarke smiles. When she does, it’s a big smile, and flashing those pearly whites her mother made sure she has since she was a kid. ‘No, that’s not how it works.’

He only smiles.

Sometime ago, Bellamy managed to understand why he sees her like this. It’s simple, really – he’s drunk. He has to be drunk to see her and if he’s drunk, it would make no sense to see her sober. So he sees her the way she’d get when she was a good drunk, flirty and chatty and open and welcoming and _warm_. When she wouldn’t think about the misfortunes she’s had in the short twenty-odd years of living; when she would just let go and be herself. But sometimes she’d go overboard, and she’d be overtly flirty, too upfront, and everything would come crashing. Some nights Bellamy would need to carry her away from the bars and the men who’d really like to get their hands on a bubbly blonde.

That’s the kind of Clarke this is. He still loves her – but this isn’t Clarke Griffin. It’s who Clarke Griffin always wanted people to think she is, and Bellamy has always hated it.

He misses the Clarke he saw all those weeks ago, after Murphy had picked him up. Clarke who was soft, and who wasn’t perfect in almost every way. Clarke who was true to the person he loved, or what she was for the last few months of her life. Clarke who was growing to become the person she wanted to be, but still had issues to get through. Clarke who was getting better – getting over her ex and the traumatic consequences, reconciling with her mother, finally finding joy in things Lexa made her believe weren’t good enough for her.

He loved her because she was _trying_.

He still loves her.

He just can’t accept that the Clarke at his side is anything like _his_ Clarke.

Then Bellamy answers a phone call, from Murphy. And everything shatters.

Drink after drink after drink is what gets him through the next hour. It nears midnight and he can hardly even hear Clarke anymore – it’s almost as if she is fading away by the moment. Bellamy knows he’s drinking himself senseless, he knows what he’s doing is fucked up and wrong, but right now, he doesn’t see any other way to deal with it.

So this time, when he shows up to where Macallan is standing for about seventh time in an hour—his bank account aching—he just orders whatever Macallan wants to give him, that contains alcohol.

‘Should I call your friend again if—’

‘No,’ Bellamy cuts him off. ‘You’re not calling anyone unless I’m dead on the floor.’

_Which might not take long_. He keeps the thought himself, not wanting to give the boy any indication as to how bad he’s got it.

‘Look man, I don’t want to cause any trouble, but—’

‘Bellamy, right?’

With his mouth hanging open and heartbeat pumping in his ears, both from the alcohol itself and the alcohol-induced anger at Macallan, Bellamy turns around to a man standing a few inches taller, a few inches bigger, and looking like he could crush him as if he were a French fry.

He squints, a little, because the man doesn’t seem to be hostile at all. In fact, he’s smiling, and it’s an unusual look on a face that rough.

‘Roan,’ he says. ‘From…’

‘Your dog saved my wallet from the thief.’ Roan’s smile grows even wider and he pats Bellamy on the back, turning to Macallan. ‘Can we have two of whatever he’s drinking?’

‘Are you sure?’

Roan’s smile tightens at Macallan’s words, but his hand is firm on Bellamy’s shoulder. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Two rum cokes coming.’

Macallan goes away and it’s just Roan and Bellamy at the counter, and a whole bunch of people not being bothered by their presence. Bellamy’s glad for them, as they’re filling out what he thinks would otherwise be an awkward silence.

‘Rum, huh? I’d never take you for the type.’

Bellamy shrugs. ‘Got tired of beer. Got tired of shots, too, and I’m just waiting for them to hit.’

They make themselves comfortable at the counter as they wait for Macallan to come back from tending to some other customers first. To Bellamy, the whole place seems to be a little hazy, a little out of this world, and he keeps himself steady by placing his entire right forearm on the counter. Fingers tap against the wood and he realizes Roan is saying something, but all he can focus on is the tapping.

_Tap, tap. Tap, tap._

He’s nine again, and he’s scared for the first time. The place where he’s hiding is in an alleyway, and it smells like thrash and rain and hot summer sun, and there is bile coming up his throat. His heart is racing and he feels pain in his chest and in his side, and the soles of his feet hurt and bleed from running with nothing to shield them from the ground. He isn’t crying; at least he tells himself he isn’t. But his vision is hazy and blurry and he can hardly make out what’s happening right in front of his nose.

_Bellamy!_ he hears them call out his name in a sing song voice. They mispronounce it, sometimes, or call him _Blake, where the fuck are you hiding?_

He doesn’t move. He shakes, and he taps against his knees, and he tries to focus on the _tap, tap; tap, tap._

Bellamy wants to close his eyes; he’s almost begging his body to do that. But his body is programmed to keep him alive, so he doesn’t, he keeps them wide open, and he watches for the silhouettes appearing in the street heading into his alley.

_You’re a fucking pussy, rat fucker, don’t you know that?_

His body shakes. He curls into himself and tries catching some of that rain to wash the blood off his soles. They’re warm, and sticky, and it just makes his fingers red and it doesn’t want to go away and there’s nothing he can—

_Ever wondered who’s your daddy? Or did your mommy fuck a couple men here and there, that’s how you and your greasy sister came out?_

This time, he closes his eyes. He’s nine and they’re nearly fifteen and he hates that he’s so tall for his age. He hates that he’s athletic and good at soccer and ended up with those boys. He hates that he knows he can’t make them pay for what they’re saying, because he knows his mom can’t afford to pay for tending to his eventual injuries.

_Tap, tap; tap, tap._

Bellamy uses logic to calm down. He hears Clarke’s voice in his head, telling him that one day, the bullies will stop. That he can become better than them; that he can become a cop and put people like those behind bars.

So he swears. He listens to the taps, and he breathes in the rhythm, and he hears the voices get quieter and quieter. He swears one day, he’ll make them pay in a way that will keep them away from hurting others. That he’ll become a policeman and serve the justice he couldn’t have as a kid.

_Tap, tap; tap, tap._

Clarke has always been saving him.

‘…okay? Do you want me to call someone? Are you going to collap—’

‘I’m fine.’

Bellamy wipes the sweat off his forehead with the hand that was tapping, and he breathes in, and breathes out, and feels a little closer to the ground. His eyes fall to the counter and he sees Roan’s taken both of their glasses and is standing up, waiting for Bellamy to do the same.

He throws a thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s my booth in the back, I got my jacket there and some other shit.’ _And my dead best friend._

‘Okay.’ Roan takes a step, but then hesitates. ‘You sure you can walk on your own?’

‘Yeah. I’ll be right behind you.’

For the most part, he is. He takes it a little slow and he’s glad he isn’t carrying anything, because walking is hard enough as it is. There’s no Macallan in sight, which is a good thing, because if he knows anything about the boy, it’s that Murphy would be halfway here already if he had it his way.

Macallan’s a good person. Right now, what Bellamy needs is someone who won’t stop him from making bad decisions.

He’s already all out of regrets.

Roan’s waiting for him in the booth, and what he doesn’t see, is that he’s sitting next to Clarke.

Bellamy sees her through a haze. She’s blurred and almost glowing, and it’s as entrancing as it is painful. More and more and more of a reminder that she’s _dead_. And the air around her has shifted into something more melancholic, more desperate than it was before he went to get more alcohol and ended up with Roan. She looks at him, but it feels like she doesn’t want to, and it feels like she doesn’t want Roan to be here and it feels wrong.

He doesn’t look at her. It’s not his Clarke. His Clarke is dead. His Clarke is dead and the person who should be dead isn’t, because life is fucked up and fate is bullshit and there is no meaning to anything they do.

Bellamy sits down next to Clarke. He doesn’t acknowledge her.

‘Didn’t think you’d be on your own,’ Roan says.

_I’m not_. ‘It’s…’ he begins, but doesn’t finish, because he doesn’t know what he was planning to say.

But Roan just nods. ‘I get it.’

And Bellamy believes him.

‘So, I take it you’re going through some shit.’

‘Hm.’ Bellamy snorts, and he wonders if he should feel insulted. ‘That’s to say the least.’

Roan’s arms spread over the back of the booth and he grins at Bellamy in a way that’s supposed to make him go on, but Bellamy’s blood only runs a little cold when one of Roan’s arms is dangerously close to Clarke’s shoulders. ‘I’ve got the whole night.’

His eyes land on hers, and she looks at him with something unclear on her face. ‘Bellamy, you shouldn’t—’

‘My best friend got hit by a drunk driver less than three months ago. Died in the hospital, her mom pulled the plug on her. ‘Bout an hour ago, I found out the driver woke up from the coma and he’s going to be okay. My friend had to call me, to tell me, because I wouldn’t answer her mother’s calls.’

‘Fuck,’ Roan says, and Roan understands.

They just drink.

‘I wish he died.’

‘Instead of her?’

‘Bellamy, that’s not—’

_Shut up, Clarke_. ‘Yeah. But not even that. If she’s dead, then he deserves to be dead more than her.’

‘Fuck,’ Roan says again, and again, Roan understands. ‘Was she just a friend?’

‘Yes. No. Fuck, I don’t know.’ Bellamy buries his head in his hands and ruffles his hair until it’s a complete mess, and by his side, Clarke is trying to catch his attention. ‘It’s fucking complicated. It’s always been. It’s like – I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.’

‘Well, if you want to talk about it…’

It’s an offer. Bellamy knows that. And he looks at Clarke, expecting her to be shaking her head, protesting against him saying that, but all he can see is sadness and curiosity. Longing, too, maybe – for what could have been.

It dawns on him that she’s never heard this, either. He’s never talked about it. With anyone. Never admitted his feelings out loud, never let himself truly feel as he feared it would ruin the close bond they had.

She smiles at him, gently, as if trying to let him know it’s okay. _Share it if you want to_ , he can almost hear her say. Her hand finds his and she covers it, gives it a squeeze, and Bellamy sees it for all he can’t feel it.

‘Go ahead,’ she says. ‘I want to know.’

Bellamy just nods. He looks at Roan, too, and starts talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i just wanted to admit the fact that i chickened out of writing a huge chunk of this chapter. what bellamy says to roan, basically the whole story of bellamy and clarke, was supposed to actually be written out. but i just... i don't know. honestly i couldn't be bothered writing it. then i realized it would also take away from all the flashbacks and that made me feel better. 
> 
> also, i wanted to just say a huge huge huge thank you to everybody who left a comment on the last chapter (apart from those who thought becho was going to be a thing just because echo was introduced. _sigh_ ) some of the comments actually made me cry and you guys are genuinely the reason why i'm getting through every single writer's block to bring this fic to an end (and then edit it). i would've given up a long time ago if it weren't for you.
> 
> and i oop-


	9. twelve weeks after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’ll be a hero someday_ , Bellamy says.
> 
> Clarke smiles at him. _I know you will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's saturday, i'm drunk and finally posting this. i lowkey hate this chapter cause it was a pain in the arse to write oops

‘Murphy just texted,’ Bellamy announces, reading off the screen. ‘He’s going to stop by later. He’s asking if we could go grab some food.’

‘Oh, that’s pretty cool. You haven’t seen him since Christmas Eve, right?’

‘Yeah. He’ll probably try to drag me to the New Years’ party.’

‘You should go! It will be fun.’

‘If it’s as fun as Christmas dinner was, hard pass.’

‘It won’t be like that, Bell. You know it. Stop being so scared.’

‘Why are you telling me what to do anyway? Are you trying to bring the party to my place? You should be happy I’m even letting you crash.’

‘I’m your sister,’ scoffs Octavia. ‘You don’t really have a choice.’

At that, Bellamy grins and stretches his legs so they are on top of hers. She rolls her eyes at him and scoffs, again, and she’s back to staring at her phone screen.

It’s easy to slip into the normal with Octavia. She came back into town a couple of days ago, hours after they found out Cage Wallace, the guy who drove into Clarke, woke up from coma and was facing up to thirty years of jail time. Thirty years could never be enough for all the ones he’s taken from Clarke, but it was all they could get, and it had to be. Emori set out to find some more information about the guy, as she knew the right people, and Bellamy couldn’t push down the bile in his throat when he looked him up online.

So now, Octavia is with him, and he doesn’t think about it that often. She keeps him busy with stories from college and she admits that she’s dating Lincoln and they’re headed towards a proper relationship. Upon hearing that, Bellamy almost gets a heart attack, but once Octavia explains everything, he understands in a way he thought he wouldn’t be able to.

Clarke was Octavia’s friend, too. When she died, Octavia was at the other end of the state, all alone and scared, and Lincoln was the only person she knew. They met up, bonded over mutual acquaintances, and over the few months, it became something more. They weren’t putting labels on it, she told him, but Octavia liked him.

And Bellamy has learnt to accept her judgement.

He lets it go. If Octavia wants to be with Lincoln, so be it – he is a good man, Clarke has let him in on that much. He can still hear her, by his side, vouching for the person Lincoln is, reassuring him he’d never hurt Octavia.

Octavia almost makes his worries seem normal. He’s thinking about his shifts, about paying the rent and the bills, about his little sister going through her first major relationship steps too far away for him to take care of him, and his friends nagging him to join them for the traditional New Years’ party when they know he’s not really a fan of parties (unless Clarke’s there to make it fun for him). Besides, he’s thinking about the fact that Octavia’s friend Niylah is coming up and they’re going to a party at one of Octavia’s old school friends’ place.

With her around, he thinks about Clarke less. He hears her voice less, too, and she seems to fade away.

Now, though, Octavia is _really_ bothering him about that New Years’ party.

‘I’ll see how convincing Murphy ends up being,’ he admits in the end. ‘I could do with some fun.’

Octavia cheers, without looking up from her phone. ‘Absolutely. You’re way too close to becoming a hermit.’

‘O!’

‘What, it’s the truth! Who’s the last person you hung out with?’

‘Roan,’ Bellamy says. When Octavia gives him a curious look, he elaborates, ‘I met him a couple of weeks ago. Cleo saved his wallet from being stolen. He ended up in a bar that I was in the other day, and we just ended up talking.’

From the carpet in the middle of the living room, Cleo gives a soft bark. Octavia ends up pushing Bellamy’s legs away and patting her lap, so the dog jumps on it, giving Bellamy’s sister a good licking before finally settling down between her legs and nibbling Bellamy’s feet through his socks.

‘Cleo, no.’

‘Don’t be a meanie!’ Octavia pets Cleo and kisses the top of her muzzle, hugging her tightly. She pouts at Bellamy. ‘So how’s this Roan guy?’

‘He’s pretty nice. We’re actually planning to hang out again soon, but he’s going back to Iceland for January.’

‘Iceland? Wow.’

‘Yeah. He’s pretty impressive.’

‘That’s so cool. You have a friend from Iceland!’

‘Kind of,’ Bellamy says. ‘He was born there, but raised here, and he only goes back to visit some of his family. He’s actually a cop here.’

Really, if Bellamy thinks about it, Roan might just about be one of the coolest people he’s ever met. He looks like the type of guy who’s just ice cold, without a soul, but Bellamy will never forget he listened to everything Bellamy had to say about what happened with Clarke. He didn’t judge him one bit, and Bellamy could see it. He even shared similar experiences he had with a girl called Ash, his girlfriend who was murdered in a police chase, as they were working on a case together. He helped Bellamy come to terms with the fact that Clarke’s death will never be fair.

He also kept Bellamy’s mind away from the fact that he’s admitted everything he’s ever felt for Clarke, right in front of her.

The events of that night are a slight blur to him, him telling the story more so than most.

It’s difficult to say if Clarke had a reaction to what he said, as she hasn’t brought it up. Lately, she’s been less artificially vibrant and bubbly, and more of the person he thought was gone forever. Her hair got shorter and the red streaks more vibrant, but she lost some of that spark that Bellamy thought the real one never had.

But aside from that change, they haven’t spoken about it. They rarely do anything but reminisce about old times.

It’s fine. It’s safe. It’s _something_.

‘When’s Murphy coming?’

Bellamy checks his phone. ‘In half an hour, he says, so about an hour.’

‘Cool! Niylah is going to arrive in half an hour, so I’ll go pick her up at the station,’ Octavia says. She nuzzles Cleo, who Bellamy has learnt adores his sister even more than he does. He’s certain that if it came to protecting either of the siblings, Cleo would go for Octavia. _Good girl_ , he thinks. ‘We’ll go to Gaia’s immediately, so see you next year, I suppose?’

‘God, I have no idea how I’ll manage without those jokes,’ Bellamy says, and then adds, ‘for the rest of the year.’

Octavia grins. ‘You love them.’

‘I hate them. I just love you.’

‘Aww. You’re so corny.’

Bellamy nudges her shoulder with his feet, which prompts her to groan in disgust and let Cleo off her lap.

They’ve already agreed that she’ll be staying over at Gaia’s along with Niylah, and Bellamy will pick her up at some point tomorrow. Even though it’s not even three in the afternoon, Bellamy understands the girls want to spend some time together before the actual party starts. He tried telling her to stay off alcohol, but then she just looked at him as if he were an idiot, which made him admit to himself that he is one. Octavia’s been at college for months and she’s been to more than one party – she’s no stranger to alcohol.

When he sees her out of the door, she gives him a tight hug. She smells nice, like the home he had to sell, and he smiles into her hair.

‘Don’t drink too much,’ he says.

Octavia raises an eyebrow. ‘Shouldn’t I be telling you that instead?’

‘I’m not an alcoholic, O.’ Bellamy sighs and leans against the doorframe, pushing the hurt away.

He knows what his sister thinks of his habits. He knows what his friends think, too, but Bellamy isn’t an alcoholic. He could stop if he wanted to. But this is the only way for him to see Clarke, to talk to her again, to have her by his side again, and he won’t let it go just because his friends think he’s something he isn’t.

‘Have fun at the party.’

‘I’m not going.’

Octavia steps out of the flat, grinning widely as she walks backwards into the hallway. ‘Murphy will convince you.’

‘He won’t.’

‘Trust me, big brother.’ She brings a hand to her forehead in a fake salute, and chuckles lightly. ‘Now, go have fun at the party and say hi to everybody from me.’

‘I will, but I’m not—’

‘Ha, you said you will! Adios!’

‘I won’t go to th—’ He cuts himself off, because the building door slams behind Octavia and he’s left alone.

He tries to be angry at her for acting like this, but it doesn’t last longer than in takes him to close the door of the flat. Instead, a relaxed smile creeps onto his face and he’s chuckling to himself. He missed Octavia. He almost forgot what the house was like when they were both there, even when they were arguing.

Bellamy kills time until Murphy comes by cleaning up a bit. It’s a habit he’s picked up when he first started getting better, and Raven theorised it helps because it’s always making him feel like he’s constantly getting his life together. Cleo helps out by walking next to him and occasionally barking at things she thinks aren’t in their place.

He gives her a treat and gets back onto the couch. ‘Good girl.’

Cleo comes up and nestles with her head in his lap, and he pets her absentmindedly. His eyes are scanning the living room and the little bit he can see into the kitchen, wondering if he’ll catch a glimpse of blonde hair swirling in movement.

He doesn’t.

A sigh passes his lips, part relief, part disappointment.

Cleo whimpers and nuzzles into his side, and Bellamy wraps his arms around her. It’s true that since he’s found her, he’s gotten less lonely; in an odd way, she fills out the silence left behind by Octavia, and in a way, Clarke, too.

As per usual, Murphy’s late, so Bellamy spends most of his time scrolling on social media, reading news articles, and just _thinking_. There’s a single memory flashing in his brain more often than any other, especially since the night he spoke to Roan.

It’s him and Clarke, and they’re seven, and they’re talking about what they want to be when they grow up.

 _I want to be a movie star_ , Clarke says. She’s sitting on the grass behind his house, it’s a sunny and warm summer day, and Bellamy’s mom is preparing them dinner. Her hair is even blonder, almost white, whereas his own is already almost black and thick and curly. They’re like polar opposites in everything but one thing – they have a whole life ahead of them.

 _A movie star?_ Bellamy inquires. _I thought you wanted to be a doctor._

 _That was yesterday,_ she says, and Bellamy nods, because of course, that was yesterday.

He throws some grass at her and she throws it right back. The sky above them is a beautiful endless blue, with tiny white clouds scattered in it.

 _I want to be a policeman_ , he says, _like my uncle_.

_That’s dangerous!_

_I know. But I want to save people._

_Didn’t your uncle die because he was a policeman?_ Clarke counters.

Bellamy nods. He sits down close to Clarke and starts braiding her hair, like she always lets him, because he wants to learn to do that for Octavia. _That’s what my mom said. But I think it’s cool. Protecting everybody._

_You’d be like a hero._

Clarke picks up a yellow flower and hands it to him, and he puts it in his mouth. His fingers work through her hair and it’s a little tangled, but he knows how to do it. She’s taught him well.

Once he takes the flower out of his mouth, he puts it into the middle of her hair. _Give me another one. I’ll make it look even prettier._

She does, and then another one, and soon the whole braid is covered in flowers of all colours.

 _I’ll be a hero someday_ , Bellamy says.

Clarke smiles at him. _I know you will._

It’s the first time Bellamy really considers being a policeman, and he does so because of his uncle, but it’s Clarke’s smile and the undisputed belief in him that doesn’t let him shake the thought out of his mind. Even when he’s ten and decides to become a teacher, and then fourteen and now he wants to be a rock star, and at sixteen a teacher again, he still wonders if he could be a hero enough.

When his mom dies, that’s when he stops thinking he can save people. He doesn’t become a policeman, or a teacher, or a rock star – he becomes a bartender in a shabby bar with great friends, but that’s all there is. He’s proven once again he can’t save people when his best friend dies.

Neither of those deaths are his fault. But if he can’t save those he loves, how can he save those he doesn’t even know?

Murphy arrives nearly an hour after he texted, and he’s banging on Bellamy’s door the way Murphy usually does.

Bellamy opens them almost immediately. ‘Hey, Murphy.’

‘I’m _starving_. Go fetch Cleo and we’re going out. My treat. No, shut your mouth, you’re not getting out of this one. Oh, you’re also not getting out of the party tonight. No protesting. Now let’s get me some fresh burger before I kill someone.’

And with that, it’s settled.

They end up grabbing some food from a food truck not too far from a park in the centre of the town. As Murphy promised, it’s his treat, but Bellamy manages to get him on board with Bellamy paying for the drinks, at least. They pick up two Cokes and some water for Cleo, who’s more than eager to spend the day outside, especially as Murphy keeps playing fetch with her.

‘We had a dog when I was a kid,’ he says. Cleo’s just come back and his hands are lost in the fur at the back of her neck. ‘Ontari. She was a pit bull, and took a liking to me. Hated everybody else. We ended up having to put her down when she got a little too crazy. I’ve never really been much around dogs since.’

‘Cleo’s good.’

Murphy grins at him and throws a stick far away from them. Cleo barks, and runs to fetch it almost immediately. ‘Yeah. She’s nothing like Ontari. They say the dog takes after the owner, and I believe it.’

‘You’re trying to say I like you?’ Bellamy makes a gagged face.

‘You’ve always had a soft spot for me, Blake. Don’t even try to deny it.’

With Murphy, it’s easy to slip into banter. Bellamy doesn’t fail to notice his slip up about his parents – he and Raven, more than any of their other friends, know that Murphy’s life used to be embodiment of shit. Dad killed for stealing, mom drank herself until Murphy emancipated at sixteen. Now, he’s pretty much the most successful out of any of them, with a house of his own and a business to run.

There are still times when his hard life is evident. Murphy always masks those with jokes.

‘How’s life?’ Bellamy asks. He heard bits and pieces at the Christmas party, but truth be told, he hasn’t truly talked to one of his best friends in a long time. ‘Emori, and the company?’

‘It’s good, it’s all good. The company’s going along really well. Raven met this guy, Wells Jaha. He’s the son of some mayor. A business man. He wants to invest in the company. If we get through with that, we could start looking at some bigger prospects, and Raven’s absolutely thrilled.’

Looking at him now, Bellamy doesn’t find it all too difficult to see Murphy as a businessman. He has always had the knack for seeing what people want and need, and how to get it. He always had a knack for getting it his way, too, and it’s somehow satisfying to see how far it’s taken him. When he starts talking about business, his voice gets a little more monotone, a little deeper, and it loses some of its Murphy charm and gains some of the John Murphy charm. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and looking off into the distance as he talks more about the company.

He looks better, Bellamy realizes. He looks determined and doesn’t look as lost as he did throughout his teenage years. His eyes have some of the spark Bellamy thought he would never regain, and it makes him proud of Murphy.

Bellamy still isn’t sure what the company is all about, but Murphy is, and that’s all that really matters. The Blakes have never been about business, anyway.

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ Murphy says. His fingers get lost in his hair and his eyes only flicker to Bellamy for shorter than a second. He’s twiddling with his hands and his head is thrown back, his back leaning against the back of the bench they’re sitting on. ‘It’s about Emori.’

‘You’re not breaking up, are you?’

The laugh that escapes Murphy is genuine, and weight falls off Bellamy’s chest. His friend is smiling, wide, and _maybe_ , Bellamy thinks, _maybe whatever this is, it’s good._

They could really use something good right now.

But Murphy looks pale, but excited, but terrified, and nervous, and it feels as if the boy has become a well of emotion.

‘Look, nobody knows, okay? You’re the first one,’ he admits, quietly.

Cleo comes back and barks, and Bellamy sends her away by throwing another stick. It feels as if the nature has gotten a little louder now that he’s waiting for Murphy to say whatever it is he has to say; birds chirping louder, people talking louder, kids playing louder.

‘If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t—’

‘No, I want to tell you. I want you to be the first one to know. Well, apart from maybe Raven, but I’m not sure how she’ll take it seeing as she doesn’t really like kids.’

Bellamy’s breath hitches in his throat. Murphy’s looking around, dark brows furrowed slightly, lips pressed together, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed his slip up.

In that short moment, one that Murphy doesn’t even realize happened, Bellamy’s world comes tumbling down nearly as hard as it did when he watched life leave his best friend’s body.

‘Kids?’

Murphy’s eyes widen. His mouth open, close, open, close, open, and then he’s just staring at Bellamy with a gaping mouth and throat producing sounds that should maybe sound like speech.

‘Emori’s pregnant?’ Bellamy asks.

Slowly, Murphy exhales. ‘See, I always thought it’d be me telling you, not the other way around.’

‘So she is?’

‘So she’s what?’

‘ _Pregnant_ ,’ Bellamy says with an exasperated sigh.

‘Yes. Yes, she’s pregnant.’ A smile begins to appear on Murphy’s face and colour goes back into his cheeks, and suddenly he’s smiling so wide and he can’t stop it.

Bellamy’s never seen him so happy.

Cleo comes again and Murphy starts talking to her, all excited, and when he says to her ‘I’m gonna be a dad, Cleopatra, a _fucking dad_!’

Murphy takes the stick and places it behind his back. Cleo nestles herself in between his leg and Bellamy’s, panting as she looks out into the Shumway park. Murphy, on the other hand, seems to be losing a little of that excitement, as his face falls and he looks off into the distance.

‘What if I’m like my old man?’ he ponders, quietly. ‘If I can’t treat my kid right. Or my mom, who would’ve traded me for a bottle of whiskey if she could. What if I can’t give my kid what—’

‘No. You’re not going to be like them.’

Murphy just looks at him. His elbows are on his knees and fingers clasped together, and his face looks _desperate_ for someone to convince him he is more than his parents.

Bellamy reaches out and grips his shoulder, mustering a smile. ‘We’re not our parents, Murphy. We won’t make the same mistakes they did. Your kid is going to love having you as a dad, because you know exactly how not to treat a kid.’

‘That doesn’t mean I know _how_ to treat one.’

‘You’re a good person,’ Bellamy tells him honestly. ‘You’re good to others, too. I don’t think you could ever treat your kid badly.’

‘I don’t know, Bellamy. I’ve…’ Murphy pauses and looks down. His hair falls over his eyes and he shakes his head a little, clearing his throat. His fingers twitch, just the tiniest bit, and he clears his throat again. ‘There’s some fucked up shit in my past.’

‘Your past, Murphy. Not your present. Not your future. You’re not that person anymore. People fuck up, but you’ve grown from it. If you’re worried about not being a good dad, that basically means you are going to be one.’

‘Not a good dad?’

Bellamy gives him one pat on the back, forcing back a chuckle. ‘You’re an idiot.’

‘I know.’ He sighs in frustration and pets Cleo again, and Bellamy starts to wonder if the dog helps ground his friend. ‘I’m just scared. I haven’t been scared in a long time.’

‘That’s normal. You’re having a kid at twenty-three. That’s fucking scary.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re happy, right?’

As Murphy looks at him, only partly in wonder, Bellamy already knows the answer. He sees it in the crinkle of his friend’s eyes when he’s worrying about being a good dad; it’s hidden in the blood rushing to his cheeks; he sees it in the glances he keeps throwing at a nearby playground. It’s in the way he’s stressing out, and he sees it because he knows Murphy has always wanted to do better; have a better family than the one he was raised in. And he shows it by loving so intensely, and so completely, and he is good family to Bellamy who isn’t even his blood.

Most of his friends, Bellamy thinks, are going to be amazing parents. But it’s Murphy that he _knows_ will be the best parent he can be. Partly, it’s because of the way he grew up, but it’s because Murphy would never let anything bad happen to the people he loves. He’d do _anything_ to protect them. And this kid, Bellamy knows, is going to think of their dad as a hero.

_And they’ll be right to think so._

‘I’m scared,’ Murphy admits, ‘but it’s the best thing that has ever happened to me.’

For this, Bellamy just pulls him into a tight hug. He feels his friend’s heart racing and he’s so, completely, immensely, _proud_. And he’s smiling now, too, because he knows this is going to have a happy ending.

‘Well,’ Bellamy says once they pull out of the hug, ‘guess we’re not kids anymore.’

Murphy laughs. It’s easy and full, and Bellamy wonders if this was the reaction he expected. ‘Damn right we aren’t.’

‘So what’s the plan now?’

‘We’re getting married before the baby comes. Not sure when, but the whole thing will be set in motion soon, we just need to tell people first. I mean, we talked about it and decided we both wanted to do this anyway. Regardless of the baby. But I still want to propose to her, you know. Give her the spectacle she deserves.’

Bellamy notices Murphy’s sheepish smile. Ten years ago, he didn’t know of his existence. Five years ago, they were only getting to know each other as friends after being hostile towards one another for a while.

To think that kid is going to look as if he’s going to melt talking about his future wife and kid, Bellamy would’ve never believed it.

‘Whatever you decide to do will be spectacular enough,’ he tells Murphy, grinning. ‘You’re unable do it any other way.’

‘I better not.’ Murphy laughs, then looks at Bellamy for a long moment. ‘I want you to be the godfather of the kid. And my best man. And look, before you say anything, Emori and I thought a lot about this. Out of all our friends, if something happened to us, you’re the person we’d trust with raising our kid.’

This time, Bellamy looks away from his friend. He’s flattered, and he says it out loud, but there’s something in him that prevents him from truly accepting the honour.

Would he trust himself with a kid?

‘You’ve already pretty much raised Octavia,’ Murphy says, as if reading his mind, ‘and she turned out pretty damn well.’

‘That was different.’

‘True. But I’m not asking you to actually raise my kid. That’s… that’s in case of unfortunate circumstances, and hopefully it won’t come to that.’ Murphy’s voice goes quieter. They both must be thinking about the same thing. ‘All I want you is to be the fun uncle to my kid.’

Beneath the lines, Bellamy can hear what Murphy is saying. He’s asking him more than to be a godfather, or a best man.

‘I don’t know,’ Bellamy says. ‘It’s—’

‘I know I’m asking for a lot. But I want the godfather of my kid to be the man I grew up with, the man who helped me through a really shitty period of life. The one who cares about his friends more than anything. The happy Bellamy, the one I’m so used to. Not this one.’

Bellamy’s teeth are gritted so hard his jaw hurts. He hears Murphy’s words, and they echo in his mind, and he hates that he knows Murphy’s right. He knows it but there’s still nothing he can bring himself to do about it.

‘I know this is a really shitty period for you, and it’s not the best for anyone,’ Murphy says, softer than before. He’s staring at Bellamy, head lowered so he can see his eyes, and his gaze is intense. ‘But here’s the thing – I need you. Raven needs you, Octavia needs you. My _kid_ needs you. You’re getting better, yeah, but you’re still not there. All I’m asking of you is just to not give up. And I’ll help. We all will.’

When Bellamy says nothing, Murphy sighs. ‘We all want you to get better.’

They sit in silence, for a while. Bellamy listens to Cleo’s panting and Murphy’s quiet coughs, and to the children playing and people talking, and he’s once again reminded that life moves on. It’s the way Clarke said it all those years ago: _being human means being infinite; you exist, and then you don’t, but nothing changes. You’re just a miniscule part of a whole._

She’s still a part of him, and she’s still infinite.

‘Okay,’ Bellamy breaks. ‘Okay. I’ll try.’

At hearing those words, Murphy perks up. A smile graces his face – small, barely there as if it’s too cautious to exist so soon, as if Bellamy’s words might mean something else. ‘You’ll be the godfather to my kid?’

‘And your best man.’ He smiles, and he feels a little warmer already. ‘If you still want me to be.’

Murphy’s arms wrap around Bellamy’s shoulders and pulls him into a hug, and Bellamy feels as if he can almost feel both of them breathing more easily now.

‘You saved me, Bellamy. Emori already called dibs on Raven as her maid of honour and you were all I had.’

A moment passes, a moment in which Bellamy wonders if he really is just a replacement for Raven, but the joy on Murphy’s face slam dunks that thought out of existence. Murphy wants him to be his best man, and the godfather to his kid. He’s just joking.

So Bellamy laughs.

And then, everything gets easier.

‘Thank you,’ Murphy says, an hour later, when they’re back at Bellamy’s flat and sitting on the couch.

‘Just don’t die,’ Bellamy retorts. ‘I don’t want to have to raise your offspring.’

It’s a joke, so Murphy laughs.

 _Baby steps_ , he hears Clarke’s voice, and it’s difficult to say if it’s just inside his head or he’s actually hearing it. _There’s an infinity of those_.

In the end, it turns out Octavia was right; Murphy did manage to talk Bellamy into tagging along to the party. He drinks, and Clarke is there, but he doesn’t notice her much. She’s there, but he only catches her in glimpses, and the scent of her chocolate shampoo comes in whiffs. He hears her laugh, for a split second, and her favourite song plays—

Only it’s not random. Bellamy’s phone is ringing, with her mother’s name on it, again.

Raven is the one who notices, and Raven has noticed once before already, and Raven catches onto things others might miss.

‘You’re the only one she hasn’t spoken to,’ she informs him, quietly, in the middle of Murphy’s living room. ‘When are you going to answer?’

Bellamy sighs, and his shoulders slump as he puts his phone back on the table. Face down, this time.

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s going to help. I know you hate the sound of this, but you two were the ones who loved Clarke the most.’ Raven’s touch on his shoulders is soft, and he leans into it. ‘Maybe talking to her won’t make you feel alone.’

‘I don’t feel alone,’ Bellamy says, and he means it.

He’s got Raven, and Murphy, and Octavia, and everyone else he cares about. He can’t be alone.

‘I’m glad.’ The words bring a smile to Raven’s face. ‘But Abby’s grieving, too. Just… think about where they were headed before Clarke died. They weren’t good, but they were getting there. And maybe Abby needs you more than you need her, you know? Truth be told, even she knows that she wasn’t the person Clarke loved the most.’

Bellamy hears the countdown to the New Year in the background, almost as if he doesn’t. Less than ten seconds.

Raven’s smile gets wider, but sadder, too, and she brushes a stray curl out of his face. ‘It was always you Clarke loved.’

The bell chimes, and Bellamy’s world shifts one more time.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to leave your thoughts/ideas/recommendations/critiques below, i'm open to anything. i'd also hear if there's anything you like particularly, to make sure i include more of that. reading the comments genuinely makes me so happy, and definitely boost my inspiration for this fic. if it weren't for you guys, i wouldn't have gotten half as far as i already have! as per usual, you can find me on tumblr as [bellarkesgodson](https://bellarkesgodson.tumblr.com/) (i also take requests)


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